


Just one week

by Imjohnlocked87



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Watson Whump, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Anthea/Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft's Past, Original Character(s), Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Whump, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24263569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjohnlocked87/pseuds/Imjohnlocked87
Summary: Ten years after returning from Afghanistan, John's life couldn't be better: he and Sherlock finally confessed they loved each other and with Rosie, they lived happily in Baker Street.Even his nightmares vanished, —all but one. Ten years later, the memory of Mike Nolan, his best friend in Afghanistan, missing in action after the sniper ambush where John was wounded, still haunted him.So when Mycroft told him the MI6 found Mike still was alive, John didn't hesitate to go back to Afghanistan to rescue him, while the detective stayed at Baker Street and took care of Rosie, despite Sherlock's protests. After all, it was a just one week mission: Get there, rescue him, and come back home. Simple, quick and efficient.But, on the third day, they lost all contact with John and his team.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 79
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. Still playing the violin

"He is still playing the violin, sir," assured one of the officers, trying to contain his voice tremor.

"So, yesterday, when you left the house, my brother was playing the violin," hissed Mycroft through his clenched teeth, making his umbrella spin between his hands, the contained raged palpable in his tone.

"Yes, sir," confirmed the officer, his voice shaking a bit.

The officer looked even more nervously at him and nodded as if he feared the slightest move would spark the British Government's anger.

"And today, he keeps playing it."

Mycroft's words conveyed no emotion, nor did his face, at least, no more than an imperceptible tremor in his left eyelid.

And it was even more terrifying. The officer looked at the DI, anguished. The three men were in his office, where Mycroft appeared to find the latest reports from the New Scotland Yard officers Lestrade assigned to watch Baker Street flat, more specifically, Sherlock.

"So," Mycroft tilted his head a bit, staring down at the officer, "According to you, my brother has been playing the violin non-stop for over twenty hours, hasn't he?"

Lestrade closed his eyes. He knew Mycroft was playing with the poor man like a cat with a mouse, waiting for the perfect moment to launch the final, fatal, and merciless attack.

The officer swallowed with difficulty, trying to show a calm he was far from feeling, and looked again at the DI, imploring his help.

But Lestrade couldn't help him. Something was wrong. Truly wrong. And he knew if Mycroft hadn't come into his office as the Angel of Death, it was only out of consideration for him.

Mycroft slowly turned his head and stared at Lestrade for a few moments.

"They just had to watch him," he hissed, chewing every syllable. "Are they so incompetent they can't even do that?"

"Don't insult my people."

"Insult? Sherlock slipped out from under their noses, and you tell me not to insult them?"

"With all due respect, sir, your brother has not left Baker Street."

Mycroft closed his eyes tightly, fighting the urge to strangle him.

"Can't your men do anything right? They just had to keep an eye on him!"

"They wouldn't have to watch Sherlock if you hadn't sent John back to Afghanistan for some top-secret mission." retorted Lestrade, angrily.

"And if they had done their job properly, Sherlock would still be in Baker Street!" shouted back Mycroft.

"Sherlock would still be in Baker Street if John hadn't disappeared into the middle of nowhere!" yelled Lestrade louder.

Both men glared at each other, panting, trying to control their temper. They didn't want to say anything that would hurt the other and mess everything up again, but the situation became more challenging to handle.

Lestrade could not blame the older Holmes for being angry. They both decided it would be NYS officers who would keep an eye on Sherlock and prevent him from fading away. The detective was so mad with Mycroft that if he saw one of his agents' cars near his flat, he would most likely shoot it with a grenade launcher.

Lestrade and Mycroft knew that if Sherlock stayed in London while the doctor flew to Afghanistan, it only was because John asked him to. The doctor didn't want to endanger the detective's life; after all, it was just a week's mission, and with John's knowledge of the terrain and the help of his former army mates, it would be easily solved.

He and Sherlock spoke almost daily if the situation permitted and, if not, the doctor sent him a text message to let him know he was safe.

Until three days ago, when John stopped contacting Sherlock.

The detective went mad with worry. If the rift between the two brothers when Mycroft asked John to return to Afghanistan had been epic, the one they had when the doctor disappeared was apocalyptic.

From that day on, Sherlock refused outright to talk to Mycroft, answer his calls, or respond to his messages.

Lestrade tried to mediate, with no better results. Sherlock was also furious with him for his screw-up. So, along with Mycroft, both decided to put the detective under police surveillance to avoid what they knew Sherlock was determined to do: go to Afghanistan to find John. They both thought that having to look after Rosie would force him to wait for Mycroft's men to find John and bring him back.

And it seemed to work, until then.

"What about your cameras, your surveillance systems?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft had never shown it to him, but the elder Holmes knew what was happening on Baker Street even before its occupants. Or at least he did until then.

"Not operational," he growled, getting up from his chair. "Let's go to Baker Street."

Greg and a couple of officers followed him and got into the black car with him. Ten minutes later, they parked in front of Sherlock's flat door. Through a narrow strip between two curtains, the detective's image playing the violin was perfectly visible.

"You see, sir? He is still playing the violin," muttered one of the terrified officers, sounded a bit alleviated, swallowing hard.

Mycroft didn't say anything until he opened the door, and music came to them.

"The Four Seasons?" Mycroft mumbled with clenched teeth. "What tiny part of your useless brain worked out the idea that my brother would play The four Seasons?" the British Government spat the words as if Vivaldi was some kind of disgusting bug. He turned to Lestrade. "And these are your best people?"

"That's enough, Mycroft. Your men have not been more efficient in finding John".

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, focusing his gaze on him. The officers looked at Lestrade with dumbfounding admiration. The fact the DI was not trembling at the elder Holmes's fierce gaze seemed to them, at the very least, miraculous.

They opened the door to the flat and stormed in. The flat was dark. Sherlock, aware he was being watched, had covered the windows with thick blankets, except for the strip where he was seen from the window.

Indeed, in front of the window, Sherlock was playing the violin wearing his dressing gown and pajama bottoms. Lestrade almost breathed a sigh of relief. A second later, baffled, he realized it was a hologram, a perfect hologram which perfectly imitated the detective's playing movements, projected from the wall. The bewilderment appeared on the officers' faces, who looked at each other in fear. Mycroft turned on the light, and Lestrade gasped.

The flat was destroyed. Sherlock smashed the walls with a sledgehammer to remove cameras and other surveillance systems from Mycroft. Pulling the wires that connected them, he had torn out large chunks of wall, strips parallel to the baseboards, others rising from the floor to the ceiling, and many crossing it. Sherlock's armchair, the table, the coffee table, the sofa, the piles of papers, notes, and books on the floor…, everything was covered with pieces of wall and fine white powder. Everything except John's armchair, which the detective had taken the care to cover with a sheet.

The kitchen was in the same state. Sherlock removed all appliances from where they were fitted, torn off cupboards doors, and scattered all their contents on the floor. The walls had the same holes from ripping out the wiring and searching for electronics. The instruments that Sherlock used for his experiments were broken and scattered on the floor. From the unplugged refrigerator, a nauseating smell was doubtless from some part of a body decomposing due to lack of cold.

Within a shout of Lestrade, several officers spread out on the flat. Sherlock and John's bedroom met the same fate as the dining room. The bed was buried under rubble, as was the wardrobe.

Although it was as badly damaged as the rest of the house, Rosie's bedroom had been cleaned, and the walls were covered with Afghanistan maps. On one of them, the detective charted John's daily movements since he arrived there. On another, of Registan's desert, he marked all the possible points where the doctor might have disappeared, accompanied by aerial photos of those places. How the detective got them was a mystery, but Lestrade knew that Sherlock could spare far more resources than Mycroft when he set out to do so.

On another of the walls, annotations on unknown symbols appeared on several paper sheets distributed along the wall. Mycroft ripped them out one by one in rage and handed them to Anthea, who, unbeknownst to anyone but the eldest of the Holmes, appeared in the room, phone in hand, with a gesture of concern unusual for her.

"Decrypt it now," ordered Mycroft.

Anthea nodded. She was about to leave the room when a voice startled them all.

"May I ask what you're doing here?"

All the heads turned to Mrs. Hudson, who, enraged, gazed at them from the bedroom door.

"Looking for my little brother, isn't it obvious?" asked Mycroft with a bit of disdain.

"You wouldn't have to look for him if you hadn't sent John on that horrible mission."

"I didn't send him, he accepted it."

"As if you didn't know he would accept it after what you told him," grunted the landlady. "Get out of my house now. If you don't leave, I'll report you for forced entry. I can do that, right, Greg?"

The DI sighed and rubbed his eyes. He didn't want to confront Mrs. Hudson, but neither his boyfriend. However, the law was the law. He looked at Mycroft and then at Mrs. Hudson again.

"Yes, she can do it," the elder Holmes opened his mouth, but the DI cut him off. "It's her house. Just because Sherlock lives here doesn't give you the right to enter."

It seemed the older Holmes hesitated between blowing up or sending the landlady to hell. But this woman commanded him a respect that he could not explain. Not to mention Sherlock's affection for Mrs. Hudson, which made her untouchable, as she well knew. So the woman squared her shoulders and held his gaze without blinking.

Mycroft clenched his teeth.

"We are leaving. But if anything happens to Sherlock, you will be responsible. You knew what he was doing, and you didn't tell me".

"Get out of my house," she repeated, angrier than before.

Mycroft was about to abandon the flat when he stopped again.

"Where is my niece?"

"Oh, now you are worried about your niece? You didn't care much about sending her father on a suicide mission".

"For the last time, it was not a suicide mission!!!" Mycroft exploded. 

Even if he didn't want to show it, the guilt was eating him up deep inside. And Mrs. Hudson's words hurt him to his core. He feared that, deep down, the landlady was right.

"Please, Martha," begged Lestrade. He didn't want that to worsen with Mycroft putting every police force in the country in check for his niece.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. Sherlock appreciated and trusted Lestrade, even though he couldn't remember his name, so she also did it.

"She is with Molly. But Sherlock expressly said that under no circumstances should Rosie leave Molly's house until they returned".

The landlady cast a warning glance at Sherlock's brother and stretched out his arm in the exit direction.

"And now, get out of my house."

The DI pulled his boyfriend, and both of them, followed by the officers, went out on the street.

"Greg," the DI turned to face the window, from where he could see Mrs. Hudson's distressed face. "Bring my boys back home," she implored.

Lestrade's heart dropped at his feet, but he nodded, trying to appear confident that he didn't feel.

Both men stood by the door, quietly, avoiding looking at each other. It was Mycroft who finally broke the silence.

"It was all calculated. The risk was calculated. Everything was planned down to the last detail," he mumbled, sunk, rubbing his cheek. "I should have listened to Sherlock, Gregory."

"Nobody did, Mycroft, not you, not me, not even John" the DI tried to comfort him. After almost two years of being together, he had learned to read behind the older Holmes's apparent coldness. He only saw Mycroft so defeated when he was shot.

It was his turn to be deadly scared when some words came out of Mycroft's mouth that he never expected to hear.

"I don't know what to do, Gregory."

Lestrade sighed in anguish and hugged him, letting Mycroft sink his nose into his hair, trying to comfort both himself and his boyfriend. He was sure Mycroft did know what to do. But not how to deal with what was sure to be the first panic attack of his life.

"You're going to bring them home as Mrs. Hudson asked us. Let's go".

He took Mycroft's umbrella and led them to the black car waiting for them a few yards away.

*****

Sherlock looked at his phone, which was vibrating, emitting a soft blue light. He was in Bill Wiggins' apartment, getting ready all he needed for his departure.

He knew Mycroft would never look for him there, so he had been using it as a base of operations to set John's rescue.

Getting out of Baker Street without being seen had been easy using a hatch hidden in Rosie's room's ceiling while the idiots from NSY watched the hologram.

He and John decided to build it after Eurus's drone destroyed the flat. That way, it would stop being a mousetrap. And the always incredible Mrs. Hudson gave him the perfect alibi, going up from time to time to chat with his hologram, further deceiving the Yards who watched him.

She even stoically endured Sherlock smashing the flat, muttering it needed a makeover, though it had only been rebuilt two years ago, after Eurus's drone visit.

And it was also the landlady who was warning him Mycroft discovered the deception.

"We don't have much time." announced the detective, fastening his army boots, as Bill folded small pieces of paper written by Sherlock.

Sherlock got up and looked out the window. Bill put his hand on his shoulder. The detective closed his eyes, trying to control the despair that asphyxiated him, so much that he felt like screaming.

"You will find him," Bill reassured him.

Sherlock lowered his head, his voice just a whisper.

"I shouldn't have let him go."

"As far as I know, there's not much you can do when John Watson is bent on something. And I'm sure you didn't make it easy for him."

Sherlock rubbed his face. He remembered himself on the tarmac, near the plane John was about to take to Afghanistan, wiping furious tears of rage and helplessness.

He tried everything to prevent John from going: menacing, sulking, yelling, pouting, lecturing him..., but nothing worked. He tried to convince him that there was something wrong with that plan so meticulously designed by Mycroft. It was true they both studied it, and it seemed perfect, but something didn't add up.

At home, while John said goodbye to Rosie, assuring her they would see each other in a week, he managed to calm down, but now, in front of the plane that was already warming up to take the doctor back to Afghanistan, he couldn't stop himself from his last resource, which always worked with John: begging.

"John, please don't go. Don't go. I'm begging you".

John sighed. He was running out of patience with the detective.

"We have talked about this a hundred of times, Sherlock. I have to go, Sherlock. It's important for me.."

"Let me come with you. Let's go together."

"Sherlock, I need you to stay here, taking care of Rosie. And even if I didn't, I know you. Instead of staying by our side, you'd be running around on some dune, getting into God knows what ambush. I can't take care of you and the mission at the same time. I'll be back before you know it"

"I won't, I promise. I won't," assured Sherlock. He didn't want to leave Rosie alone, but he was afraid to let John go. 

John raised an eyebrow, and the detective lowered his head. He knew what that gesture meant. John asked him countless times to wait for Lestrade's arrival or to leave him behind. And he'd never listened to him.

"You don't have to go. You don't have to because of Mycroft..."

"Sherlock, I told you before. I'm not doing it for Mycroft; I'm doing it for Mike. After the ambush, after we were held hostage when they finally found us, he was presumed dead. He has been there for ten years, Sherlock. I have to find him and bring him home, Sherlock. I can't just leave him there. I would never forgive myself."

"But you don't have to go. Let Ml6 go, the army..." 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He knew that look. John wouldn't change his mind. He'd made a decision, and he wouldn't change it.

"Let me come with you. I've been to Kazakhstan, I've been to Serbia, I've been..."

John gritted his teeth, and Sherlock cursed to himself. The memory of John and Mycroft's row at what happened in Serbia still hung over them.

"It will be just one week. We will talk every day, you, me, and Rosie. I know the terrain. I'm going with my old army buddies." He took Sherlock's chin and raised his face. "It's going to be all right. Before you know it, I'll be back." 

John took Sherlock's hands to convey confidence. He didn't like seeing him like that, but he had to go to look for Mike. 

"Mike has been a prisoner for ten years. I must come back to him."

"John..." Sherlock rubbed his face desperate. As much as he tried to silence it, to convince himself it was only fear of losing John, he could not eliminate the unease caused by the mission. "I don't..., there's something... Something's not right about this mission. Please let a team go and check it out, please,..."

"Sherlock, please. Don't make it harder for me. You forget somewhere in the desert there is a man who had been a prisoner for ten years. One of my men. And not just one of my men, a..." John closed his eyes and sighed.

Sherlock pressed his lips. John didn't tell him, but he deduced it the same day he told him he enrolled Mycroft's mission. Mike had been, if not a boyfriend, someone very special to John. Another reason for not wanting him to go. Sherlock didn't want to appear as the typical jealous husband, but he was afraid of what might happen when Mike met John again.

The doctor smiled and kissed him gently.

"Just one week. I know you are worried about me, but I need you to stay here, stay calm. I'll be back on Sunday". 

Sherlock gave up and put his head down. They kissed embraced. When John broke the kiss, he had trouble getting out of the detective's embrace.

Sherlock finally let him go, watching helplessly as John disappeared into the plane that would take him back to Afghanistan.

"Don't worry, we'll take care of him," shouted Bill Murray from the top of the flight deck, closing the plane's door.

As the plane took off, he turned to Mycroft, who had watched the scene in silence a little bit off. He cast a look at his brother that would have made Genghis Khan tremble.

"How could you do it?" he asked, anger and anguish palpable in his voice.

"He had to know," replied Mycroft.

"Bullshit!" Sherlock was so furious that tears of rage welled up. With clenched fists, he could barely contain the urge to pounce on his brother and beat him. "You could not have told him. You could have sent any team to rescue him. You knew what would happen as soon as John found out one of his men was still a prisoner in Afghanistan".

Mycroft raised his head, trying to appear a calm he didn't feel. Sherlock's eyes sparkled with anger and concern. He twisted the gesture. But his younger brother was right. When he informed John Mike was alive, he knew the doctor would want to go after him, and he was sure Sherlock would accompany him. They would complete the mission in the blink of an eye, and everything would have ended up. But he never imagined John would refuse outright to let Sherlock go with him and that his brother would be so devastated at his husband's departure.

"If anything happens to him, I swear to God I will kill you," threatened the detective, who turned around and stride down the tarmac to the cab waiting for him a little further. Mycroft rubbed his face, worried. It was the first time he heard his brother swear to God.

"I shouldn't have let him go," he repeated to himself, clenching his fists in rage. 

He shook his head. This was not the time for regrets. Rosie hoped to return to her father by the end of the week, and he would make sure that both of them were back by then.

Another man, tall and strong, dressed in camo army suit, showed up at the door.

"They are here," he announced.

Bill and Sherlock turned to look at the ten tall, thin men who just entered the room. Wiggins watched them with approval.

The men seemed nervous.

"I don't want to go to jail," finally said one of them.

"None of you will go to jail," replied Sherlock, giving each of them one of the papers Bill had been folding. "Ask for DI Lestrade and give him this note. They will let you go immediately."

They nodded.

"The cabs are waiting," announced a fourth man appearing at the door.

"Thanks, Pete. Go away," Sherlock ordered, and the ten men left the apartment for the street in a hurry.

"Will it work?" asked Bill.

Sherlock nodded.

"Take me with you," asked Bill.

"I can't; you're not ready."

"I'm better than most of them."

"But you don't have their experience. And I need you here". 

"Time to go," Pete's voice brought him out of his reverie.

He and Sherlock rushed down the stairs to the street. A black van was waiting for them with the headlights off. They ran in the rain and jumped in the back.

Sherlock sat down in one of the seats, Peter next to him. The detective noticed a flash in the sky. Mycroft's helicopters were looking for him.

"Let's go," he urged, and the van sped off.

*****

John grunted. His headache was so severe he felt nauseous. He tried to put his hand to the back of his head, but he couldn't.

How long had he been on his knees? Quite a while, judging by the numbness. Little by little, his mind began to realize the situation. On his knees, his hands tied behind his back, attached to a metal pole. He moved his fingers to disentangle them from the lack of blood supply due to the too-tight ligatures. 

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was so dry that it was impossible. He licked his burned lips after so many hours of sunshine.

Blurred and choppy memories of what happened came to mind. Their arrival in Afghanistan, the heat, the fucking heat that seemed to melt his brain... how easily they found the facilities where Mike was held captive. In the exact place, but contrary to Mycroft's men's reports, they were not semi-abandoned, and soon they were outnumbered, disarmed, and captured.

His whole body was in pain. His shoulder ached from the brutality with which his hands were tied behind his back. He didn't know how long they had been dragged across the dunes to the camp. More than a day, because they walked at night, but his dehydrated brain lost track of time.

He felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Shit. How could Mycroft have been so wrong? The information he gave them about Mike's whereabouts led them straight into a trap.

He saw Bill Murray and the rest of the group on their knees, like him, their hands also tied behind their backs. He frowned. Luke was missing.

He tried to swallow again. His throat was burning, and his body was screaming for water.

A door opened on his right. Two men came in. One of them bent down and put a glass to John's lips. The doctor moved his head away from the glass.

"Clever, very clever," the man scoffed. He tried to hide it, but his slight Afghan accent was unmistakable to the doctor; it was obvious he was not used to wearing that British army uniform. John couldn't help but wonder what would have happened to the real owner.

"What are you doing in Registan?"

"We are filming a documentary."

The man gave a sinister laugh.

"British humor. I like it. I'm in no hurry. And don't worry about the water. You'll soon have more..."

The man got up and, followed by his henchman, left the room. John expelled the air he had been holding. Suddenly, his gaze fell on a barrel at the bottom of the room. The tremor in his body became so strong he could no longer contain it. No, not again. He knew what lay ahead. He breathed in sharply, wondering if he would be able to bear it a second time.

He thought of Sherlock and Rosie. The detective would be climbing the walls because he couldn't reach him, but he knew Sherlock would keep Rosie from worrying. Fortunately, Mycroft had him under surveillance. Bloody Mycroft. That was all his fault. He cursed the day he accepted the mission.

Only one thought reassured him: Sherlock and Rosie were safe, hundreds of miles away.

******

"Yes?" Lestrade picked up the phone without hardly letting it ring.

"Holmes has been spotted at the airport," Donovan announced, panting on the headset's other side.

The DI raised his eyebrows and informed Mycroft.

"He wouldn't take a regular flight to Afghanistan. He knew both officers and my agents would be there".

"He is desperate. Maybe he made a mistake," ventured Lestrade.

Mycroft looked at him doubtfully. He knew Sherlock wouldn't make a beginner's mistake like that. But Gregory was right about one thing: he was desperate.

They asked the driver to rush to the airport, who stopped the car in front of one of the airport access doors, where Donovan, accompanied by four other agents, was already waiting for them.

"He is going to take a fight to Uzbekistan," she informed them. Before she could add something else, her radio crackled.

"He is taking a flight to China."

Lestrade took his radio and asked for more Yard troops, while Mycroft barked orders over his phone.

"Sherlock is in the queue for the flight to Kabul," announced another of the officers.

"What the hell?" asked Lestrade. "Deploy, deploy!" He ordered, "cover all possible destinations."

"Sir, he is taking the flight to Pakistan," said another officer, after talking to airport security.

More New Scotland Yard officers arrived and spread out through each of the gates, looking for Sherlock.

"Gate to Uzbekistan, sir, he is just arrested there," one of their agents told Mycroft. Two seconds later, it was one of the Yard who warned Sherlock was being held at the gate for Beijing, and shortly afterward, a third reported he was at the Kabul gate.

"What's going on, Mycroft?" he asked, running to Kabul gate.

"He's playing with us."

"What?"

The DI ran to Sherlock, surprised that the detective didn't notice him.

"Sherlock, what..?" he asked, pulling his arm violently to turn him over. Shit.

"Who are you?" snarled Donovan.

"I... I want to talk to DI L… Lestrade" stammered the man.

Lestrade sighed, running his hand through his hair.

"It's me."

"I have this for you."

Greg took the paper folded in four. He opened it and immediately recognized Sherlock's handwriting.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it," he shouted, making the nearby passengers turn to him.

"Give it to me," asked Mycroft.

Lestrade handed him the paper on which there was only one sentence: _Mycroft, fuck off_.

Soon ten men with the same complexion, dark curly hair, and wearing the same Belstaff coat as Sherlock were identified, interrogated, and released.

"What's the point of this pantomime?" Donovan asked, angrily.

"While half of New Scotland Yard is here, it's not anywhere else," replied Mycroft, gritting his teeth for being fooled so easily.

"Where?"

"That's what we have to find out now."


	2. The empty chair

The van sped through the streets of London. It was getting dark, and there were few vehicles left to go to the outskirts like them. Sherlock had an hour's drive ahead of him. There were few Mets cars to be seen, and he was sure that the black van, one of many in London, would go completely unnoticed.

Anyway, he knew precisely what advantage he had over Mycroft.

The detective opened his phone and searched through Rosie's photos. He didn't have many. He didn't want to become one of those parents with the phone loaded with hundreds of images of their children; although, if he were honest to himself, he wouldn't mind; he was just doing it to safeguard his image of a highly functional sociopath.

One of the three he had was his favorite: John sitting in his armchair, with Rosie on his lap, while the doctor read her a storybook. Sherlock took the picture himself a couple of years ago, from the kitchen, leaving one of his experiments unattended to listen to John reading and Rosie's comments in her baby tongue.

He was heartbroken by the memory of Rosie's bewildered look on the first day John didn't call after flying to Afghanistan. Sherlock reassured her that he was busy and would call back later, trying to believe it himself. The little girl seemed to remain calm. When John still didn't show up the next day, he told her John ran out of the phone, and as soon as he could get another one, he would call. Every time Sherlock's phone vibrated with Mycroft answering his increasingly angry and worried messages, the girl opened her eyes in hope, asking, "Daddy?" Sherlock tried his best to comfort her, assuring it would take John a little longer to get in touch due to work, 

It was while Rosie was sleeping or leaving her with Mrs. Hudson's care when he started setting everything to go to Afghanistan to find John, outwit Mycroft, his agents, Lestrade, and the Yards. As he feared from the beginning, something had gone wrong. John and the team were in danger, however much Mycroft insisted on repeating that there had been a communications failure. But Sherlock knew his brother, and he knew that, behind the supposed tranquillity, there was a hint of worry in his voice that he was trying to conceal. 

Sherlock felt sorry for Lestrade, but he knew he would side with Mycroft, so he couldn't count on him. Moreover, he was sure that John had asked both of them not to let him fly to Afghanistan if anything went wrong. 

Two days later, when he had it all set up, the detective asked Rosie if she would like to go to Aunt Molly's house while he went to help John with his work. The girl clapped her hands. Going to Aunt Molly's was always fun. She knew many games, let her do everything she wanted, and only ate what she liked. 

'We got here"' announced Pete, taking Sherlock out of his thoughts.

Just as the owner promised, the hangar was quite hidden, a former client whom Sherlock helped to prove innocent of his wife's death, as everyone (especially Anderson) thought. The assailant had attacked and killed her just before he got home, and when the police and paramedics showed up, everyone assumed that he had been the perpetrator.

Pete gave the agreed-upon signal. Sherlock rolled his eyes at that lousy imitation of the owl's wailing. Still, Pete had not consented to change it, and the detective knew he would have to cope with his companions' little quirks. Soon after, seven men came out of the shadows. Among the nine of them, opened the hangar doors and ran to the private plane waiting inside. One of them sat at the controls. When the last men got on the aircraft, Sherlock waved the pilot off. He was about to climb the ladder when someone put his hand on his shoulder.

"Good evening, Major Sholto," the detective greeted without turning around.

"Does your offer still stand?"

Sherlock turned to him. The same James Sholto he met at the wedding: shoulders back, head held high, eyes flaming with determination. Although he was dressed in civilian clothes, it was easy to guess his military past.

"Of course, Major," replied the detective, holding out his hand, "I'm glad you finally made up your mind."

"I wasn't planning on coming, but without me, you would be lost in Afghanistan."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"That is not why you are here."

This time it was James who rolled his eyes.

"John would never forgive me for not taking care of you," he threw a heavy backpack at him, which Sherlock picked up in the air.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me," replied Sherlock, entering behind him.

"That's what you think."

At the top of the plane's flight deck, Sholto looked around. The airfield was semi-clandestine, but he was sure anywhere a flight could take off from there would now be heavily guarded by New Scotland Yard officers, especially if what was taking off was a Cessna Citation X/ X.

"Where did you get this marvel?"

"A client owed me a favor."

"And the Yards?"

Sherlock raised the right corner of his mouth.

"On a wild goose chase."

Sholto chuckled, shaking his head. Bloody Holmes.

Both entered the aircraft. The Major paused in surprise at the sight of the occupants occupying all but two of the seats in the plane.

"I knew you would come," replied Sherlock smugly.

Sholto sat and fastened his seat belt while Sherlock did the same. The plane ran down the runway and took off. The passengers looked out of the window, commenting on what was below.

Once the plane got altitude, the Major got up and walked over to the seven passengers, surprised at their appearance. Almost all of them had long beards and messy hair, while they gobbled up with evident enthusiasm some enormous sandwiches and drank water as if they came from the desert. Some remained silent, looking out of the window, lost in their thoughts; others, with their eyes closed, kept muttering to themselves. A couple of them, at the back of the plane, were laughing and chatting excitedly, arguing and fighting like children, to continue talking as if nothing had happened. 

James looked at them critically, while Sherlock displayed documents on his desk, letting James do at will. It was good for Sholto to become familiar with them.

A while later, James came back to his seat next to Sherlock.

"Do you rely on them?" he asked.

"I would trust them with my life."

"Do they know where we are going? 

"Down to the smallest detail."

"Volunteers?"

"Of course, at the moment they knew we were to fetch John, they volunteered."

"Skilled enough?"

"The best."

James let out a loud laugh that resonated throughout the cabin.

"What's the plan?"

****

John felt his lungs burning. His muscles spasmed from lack of oxygen. Blood, pooled in his head, was throbbing in his temples. His vision became blurry, and his head stopped thinking clearly. God, he needed to open his mouth and breathe in forcefully. But if he did, his lungs would fill with water.

He felt his feet being pulled up. Once out the water, he opened his mouth to breathe in as much air as he could, amid coughs and gagging, frantically pulling at the bindings on his hands in a vain attempt to free himself. The doctor was tied upside down, his ankles attached to a pulley that lifted him up and down over the water-filled barrel. He was gasping like a fish out of water, in a desperate attempt to get enough oxygen to last the next dive, while his captors shouted his name louder and louder.

The fake British soldier waited for him to stop coughing and handed him the phone again, the same one he had been holding for the last hour every time he was raised.

"Make the call."

And each time, John shook his head, while the puzzle started to complete in his head. The man wanted him to call Sherlock, force him to go there and surrender to them without resistance. Sherlock was the target, and, as always, he, John Watson, was the fastest way to get to the detective. Mike wasn't alive. He had never been. It had all been a ploy to make John lure the detective.

But John wouldn't call him. If he did, Sherlock would go in there and do anything to keep John safe, to keep him from being hurt. And John wasn't going to let that happen. He would make himself get killed first. Mycroft promised him he would prevent Sherlock to go looking for him in case anything went wrong.

Moreover, apart from Sherlock's, there were many more lives at stake. After assuring repeatedly nothing could go wrong in Mike's rescue, Mycroft warned them. There were a lot of covert rescue missions that, if discovered, would blow up, putting hundreds of lives in danger. He assumed that's why his captors wanted him not only to call Sherlock but to explain they were part of one of those missions. 

The men spoke angrily to each other. John hadn't spoken Farsi for a long time, but he understood something about them running out of time, running out of time for what?

Someone cut the rope that held his ankles, and he fell to the ground with a dry thud. John, still dizzy from the lack of oxygen, clenched his teeth to drown out a groan. After so many hours with his hands tied behind his back, the pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable. But he could not suppress a cry of pain, when one of his captors grabbed him, forcing him to move. He staggered about to lose consciousness from the pain in his shoulder. He felt untied and reattached to the pole. John was on his knees again, physically and mentally exhausted, his wet clothes clinging to his body, his head swirling with thoughts. He threw his head back, banging on the pole.

John started shaking. The terror he felt when he was hoisted over the barrel, like ten years before, was engulfing him. He drowned out a sob, coming from deep inside his chest. His mind became a whirlwind of distressing memories and images, of fear of dying, of the anguish of not being able to breathe, of not knowing if he would be able to endure the next dive. He was determined to take it, but what if he couldn't? What if he draws Sherlock to certain death?

John groaned, anguished. He struggled with the restraints again, but there was no way to open the handcuffs. He had neither the skill nor Sherlock's skilled fingers. And his leg hurt more and more.

The thought of having lead Bill and the others to certain death made him scream with rage. Bloody Mycroft!

"We came here because we wanted to," Bill's voice sounded distant and muffled, though it was just over a foot away. He was also tortured into calling Sherlock, and like John, he refused.

Bill knew John. And he knew what he was thinking.

"We came because we wanted to," he repeated. "Even though you hadn't come, we had."

"That doesn't change the fact that I brought you here," replied John mortified.

"The empty chair, remember?"

John nodded. How could he ever forget it? Every time Bill, he and the others met in a pub, they left an empty chair, Mike's, to somehow keep him up with them. John understood what Bill meant. All of them wanted that chair to be occupied again.

It had been a hard blow for all of them to get back to the idea that Mike was not alive, that he was still the only one who had not survived the ambush that the snipers laid on them in Afghanistan.

Everyone survived, everyone except Mike. Missing in action. Days and days of fruitless searching until, in the end, they left him for dead. But nightmares continued to haunt John.

Until now, when Mycroft told him his agents found him, he didn't hesitate twice. He had a chance to bring him back home, as he should have done after the ambush.

He needn't tell Sherlock there was something special between him and Mike, the detective figured it out himself. John and Mike were not in love; he never felt for him the way he felt for Sherlock. Still, there was a very special connection between them, reinforced by sharing dangerous situations, long nights on call, surveillance missions, and nights of sex which Sholto joined from time to time and, if he was drunk enough, Bill.

He thought Sherlock's protests were provoked partly by jealousy and partly by the detective's insecurity about what might happen when John met Mike again. There was no point in the doctor reiterating he had nothing to worry about.

John had no doubt what would happen. His mind would finally rest, free from guilt and remorse. But it was clear that the detective feared these feelings would be rekindled.

The doctor, obsessed with the idea of bringing Mike back, didn't listen to him. His enthusiasm heightened by that of Bill and the others when he called them to join the search team. In John's head, Sherlock's arguments about something not fitting in were reduced to a tantrum.

He should have known that if Sherlock found a leak in something, he should have listened to him. But the idea of redeeming himself from guilt and remorse was stronger than him.

John felt as if he was still in the water and could not breathe into his lungs.

He couldn't breathe. His body shook violently. Panic, guilty, remorse engulfed him, mortifying and drowning him. 

"John!" Bill's cries sounded far away, though the nurse was screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice a little hoarse. He must have been yelling at him for a while.

"John, tell me about Rosie's last birthday," Bill's voice sounded a little closer.

There was no response. Bill insisted. He had to get John's mind off the anguish taking hold of him and needed John's mind to evoke a pleasant image.

"Tell me, was there cake?"

John's breathing partially relaxed. Part of his brain wanted to send Bill to hell, but, as a doctor, he knew exactly what he was trying to do. He forced himself to search through the mists of his brain, and he finally saw the cake. A cake with the characters from Frozen movie in fondant, a movie Rosie loved.

He nodded, unable to talk.

"What did it taste like?"

"Lemon," John replied hesitantly, feeling that the air was beginning to enter his lungs more easily "sour as hell."

Bill chuckled.

"Are you with me yet?"

John nodded. The whirlwind of images had subsided, and he could breathe better.

"Thank you, Bill."

"In command, Captain. But for the record, if... when we get back, I'll kill your brother-in-law."

"You can get in line."

John shook his head. How could the intelligence services have been so wrong? True, it was not the first time they had provided misinformation, but the mistake had been blatant.

"An abandoned facility," grunted Billy, reading his mind. "They just missed one little detail. The fucking military base buried underneath! What do they want with thermal cameras, infrared, radar for? It was a piece of cake, damn it!" Murray's yell echoed throughout the facility.

"I should have listened to Sherlock," John mused.

"Me too."

John told him Sherlock was suspicious of the mission. Still, the two of them, looking at the reports, the photographs, and the rest of the documentation, decided that the detective had a colossal jealousy fit. Even Mycroft asked for confirmation of the information, and a second raid offered the same data.

But Sherlock was stubborn. "It's _too easy, don't you see it? How is it possible Mike has been there for ten years, and no one has noticed? The building is in a too accessible area. Apart from this, it is flimsy and easily detectable. And no one noticed it until now? With all the missions going on there? Something doesn't add up, John_." 

Sherlock's words echoed over and over in his head. 

"Why bring us here?" John muttered, almost to himself. He could finally think with a little clarity, "It's clear that they want to attract Sherlock, but why? They could have caught him at Baker Street. It doesn't make sense."

"Sherlock is unassailable there, with you and your brother-in-law."

"Even so," John shook his head "There must be something else."

"How long will it take them to find us?" asked Tom, who remained silent. 

"Not too long. Sherlock will be driving Mycroft crazy to organize the search party."

"You don't even believe what you're saying, do you?" grunted Bill. 

"Of course, no," sighed John. "Sherlock will be on his way here by now." 

"Straight into the same trap as us."

****

Lestrade rang the doorbell at Molly's apartment. It was getting dark, but they had no time to waste. He only hoped his goddaughter would not be too suspicious of that visit at ungodly hours.

The pathologist opened up and smiled, but her face darkened when she saw Mycroft behind the DI.

"Where is Sherlock?" he barked in a sour tone.

"Mycroft..." sighed Lestrade.

"I have nothing to say to you, Mycroft."

"I'm taking Rosamund away from here!" threatened the elder Holmes.

"Mycroft..." sighed the DI again.

Couldn't his boyfriend understand it wasn't time to be the petulant British Government?"

Molly arched his eyebrows, defiant.

"Don't you dare..." started Molly, but fell silent immediately as she heard the girl's footsteps approaching. Oblivious to everything, she threw herself into Mycroft's arms and then into Lestrade's.

"Uncle Myc! Uncle Lestrade!" shouted Rosie in excitement "we're making chocolate cookies" she looked at the serious faces of the grownups and frowned, "Is something wrong, Aunt Molly?"

"No, nothing, dear," she replied quickly, trying to sound cheerful. "Your uncles came to see how you are."

"We smelled the cookies," Lestrade lied, feigning enthusiasm, "and we knew that delicious smell could only be from our favorite niece's cookies."

Rosie giggled, delighted.

"They're for Daddy and Papa when they come on Sunday."

Mycroft frowned.

"How do you know they will be back on Sunday, Rosamund? Ouch!" he complained about Greg's hard nudge.

"Because Daddy told me he would come home from work on Sunday. And Papa went to help him. So they'll both be back on Sunday. I deduced it as Papa does."

"That is another kind of…" Mycroft couldn't continue the sentence, because Lestrade covered his boyfriend's mouth with his hand, to the girl's amusement. They could be so silly sometimes!...

"Rosie, darling, watch the cookies, so they don't burn, but remember you can't touch the oven, okay? asked Molly

"Okay!" cried the little girl, running inside.

"She's happy and calm, Mycroft," hissed Molly. Lestrade was surprised. The sweet Molly, who stammered when she invited Sherlock for coffee, was now a strong woman determined to defend her goddaughter from everything, even Mycroft Holmes. "If you take her away, Rosie will get worried. She is smart, and she will realize something is not right. It won't take her long to figure out it's connected to Sherlock and John."

"Then tell us where my brother is."

Molly gritted her teeth.

"Please, Molly," begged Lestrade. If putting out the fires when Sherlock worked with the Yards was challenging, putting out the fires Mycroft created was exhausting.

Molly scratched the back of her hand.

"Wait here."

She disappeared for a few moments and returned with two envelopes: one small and one sizeable bulging envelope.

"The Purple Lady," she said, reaching out the little to Lestrade.

"What kind of nonsense are you talking about?"

"The woman in the square?" asked the DI, who had seen Sherlock talk to her a couple of difficult cases.

Molly nodded.

"With this note, she will give you all the information you ask for. Just try not to act like an asshole, Mycroft. Otherwise, she won't talk," Molly put the big envelope in Lestrade's hand, "Sherlock gave me this for you."

"He didn't leave anything for me?

"Are you stunned? snarled Molly, "I thought you were the smart one."

Mycroft closed his eyes. In other circumstances, others' rejection wouldn't have bothered him in the least. But it hurt him to know everyone thought he was guilty of John's disappearance and Sherlock's departure. As if he didn't know enough of it himself. Mycroft wasn't used to being wrong. And the mistake had been so massive and its consequences so disastrous he had not yet been able to assimilate it, causing him to be sensitive to others' comments and accusations. Now it turned out that he too had a heart.

"Rosie, come here to say goodbye to your uncles," Molly called.

The girl ran back, with a folded napkin in her hands.

"Watch out, the cookies are hot," she warned.

"Rosie, I told you not to touch the oven," Molly scolded her.

"Papa taught me how to use it without burning myself." 

"Papa will get a good lecture when he gets back," Molly mumbled.

Mycroft and Lestrade said goodbye to the girl, and they both walked down the street. Once in the car, they asked the driver to take them to the square where the purple lady lived. The DI opened the large envelope. Inside were two small envelopes and a letter whose writing he recognized instantly. It was from Sherlock. He hesitated to read it aloud or not. Mycroft, who also knew the handwriting, looked at him anxiously.

DI began to read.

_"Lestrade,_

_I should write this to Mycroft, but I'm still too angry with him. I know, moreover, I can trust you completely, and that you will do as I ask._

_Leaving Rosie here hasn't been easy for me. But I know I could never forgive myself for not trying to find John and bring him back. What's more, I know Rosie wouldn't have forgiven me either if, in time, she found out that I could have gone and got him, and I didn't._

_There's a chance neither John nor I will come back. Legally and financially, that's not a problem. Rosie is a Holmes, and, as such, the fund in my name would be available to her, and I know Mycroft will never allow her to be short of anything. He will do everything he could for her. But he's like me. Feelings are an unknown and frightening universe to him and children, like me before I met Rosie, give him a panic."_

Lestrade chuckled. He couldn't say it better.

_John taught me that, for Rosie to be entirely happy, apart from the material ones, she also has her - I don't know what to call it - emotional needs covered. I learned to comfort her when she is sad and reassure her when she is scared (Rosie is fearless, but she is still a little girl) to make her feel loved, valued, and to let her know that she is perfect as she is. Well. You know better than I do what I'm talking about. And that's where you have to help Mycroft, not because he doesn't feel it and doesn't love her, but to express it and not say stupid things about love being a chemical defect caring not being and an advantage._

"I could never tell Rosie that now," muttered Mycroft, looking at Lestrade, who blinked, trying to hold back tears.

If Sherlock talked about Mycroft like that, if he was so keen to make him a good stepfather for Rosie, he feared something was wrong. And from the look on his boyfriend's face, he thought precisely the same.

_I've left a list of Rosie's favorite bedtime stories. When you read them to her, you have to do the voices; otherwise, she won't fall asleep. She needs Bluebell, her stuffed rabbit, and she can't stay in the dark, so you have to leave the blue light on._

_I left a box at Molly's house with everything she needs to sleep. Also her preferred songs, the movies she watches over and over again tirelessly (!!!) and a list of what she likes to eat and what she doesn't, what gives her allergies and what John says she has to eat even though she doesn't like it because it's good for her health._

_Don't leave her alone during storms. She likes them, but if the thunder is loud, it could scare her a bit._

_Don't play Albinoni's Adagio on her; it gets her sad._

Lestrade stopped for a moment and continued reading with a lump in his throat.

 _She likes to listen to the Saint-Saëns's_ _Carnival of the Animals, especially the donkey and the finale parts and Rossini's William Tell' overture. When we play The Typewriter, she likes to ring the bell. She knows the score by heart; she doesn't need it to play it._

_Her clothes, toys, and the rest of her stuff are at Molly's house. I sent them there before I got the cameras._

_Since her professional future is still unclear (two weeks ago she wanted to be a consulting detective, then an astronaut, a doctor, and finally a dancer), there is no guideline on that except that Rosie can choose whatever makes her happy. And if Mycroft disapproves, so much the better._

"Git," muttered his brother, and both chuckled.

_I do attach a list of violin teachers to help her continue playing if she wants to (don't let Mycroft choose them. The ones he chose for myself were deadly boring and pretty bad. I think he did it on purpose so I wouldn't learn). Her violin and sheets of music are in another box._

"That's not true," Mycroft grumbled, thinly-spoken. "They were the best I could find."

_We promised her a puppy for her fifth birthday. John and I were thinking of going to an animal shelter, adopting one, whichever one she wanted. Whatever breed the dog is, I hope it will tear up Mycroft's furniture and shoes. (still angry). The important thing is that it loves her and Rosie likes it. Whatever it is. Tell that to Mycroft. It is her choice. I think it would also help her get over the fact that we're not here._

_If anything happened to us, I ask you to be the one to tell Rosie in the least painful way for her, if there is any. Molly would help you; I have already discussed it with her. Well, sort of. You know what I mean._

Lestrade smirked sadly, imagining the conversation, Sherlock hinting, babbling and stalling, and Molly guessing what he meant.

_"I know I couldn't leave Rosie in better hands than Mycroft and you. It's something John, and I already talked about in case something happened to us during a case. Molly will help you, and so will Mrs. Hudson._

_In case we don't come back, look after her and love her and make her the happiest girl in the world. With any luck, she's little, and John and I will be a blurred memory when she's older, or at least not painful one. The other envelope contains a letter that John and I wrote to Rosie, in case something happened to us because of work. I know you'll know when to give it to her._

_Take care of Mrs. Hudson, too. Tell Mycroft to keep paying her the flat rent. That way, she will have peace of mind financially, also. She would never accept help otherwise. But I think you'd better be the one to talk it over with her. It'll be a while before she deigns to speak to Mycroft._

_There's another envelope for you too, but promise me you won't open it until it is confirmed that I'm dead, and this time, with no return._

_Thank you, Greg._

_SH"_

Lestrade wiped away his tears and stared at his boyfriend.

"Myc, we have to get them back no matter what."

Mycroft, his face infinitely sad, nodded.

"Yes, I'm not going to do voices reading stories."

Lestrade chuckled sadly. The Holmes and their defense mechanisms.


	3. An Asian Giant Hornet nest

Lestrade and Mycroft went down the canalside steps of Granary Square, to the nearest to the river. It was almost deserted at that time of night, very different from its usual appearance during the day when groups of Londoners and tourists crowded into it to enjoy the midday sun.

Still, Lestrade knew where to find her. He had once accompanied Sherlock to talk to her on a case. She was one of the detective's primary contacts in his homeless network, who could provide him in a few minutes with information that any police force would take hours or days to gather.

Sitting in the far corner, the Purple Lady watched the waters of the Thames flow. She wore a purple long party dress, the skirt composed of several layers of tulle dragging on the floor.

She wasn't wearing any coat, but the woman did not seem to be cold. The woman would not be more than forty years old, although living on the streets made her look much older. Her hair, grey, and dawn gave her a crazy Einsteinian air that kept the few passers-by away. The Purple Lady did not flinch when both men stood in front of her at the edge of the canal.

"Good evening, DI and company," she cheerfully greeted them.

"Molly Hooper gave me this for you." Lestrade handed her the envelope. He didn't want to be rude, but he knew that not knowing they were coming from Sherlock, the woman would shut up.

She smiled, and her face got all wrinkled. Mycroft watched her for a few moments. An intelligent, cultured woman, born into an upper-middle-class family. Her eyes, awake and lively, attentive to everything. The dress was relatively new, surely a gift from Sherlock in payment for some information the detective had no doubt charged to his credit card. He couldn't help wonder what lead her to live in the streets.

The Purple Lady smiled, looking at the envelope, without taking it.

"So you've missed him," she mumbled, amused.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. They didn't have time for that. But the warning look Lestrade gave him prevented him from saying anything.

Lestrade offered her the coffee they bought a few minutes earlier in one of the coffee shops in the square, with chocolate and heavy-creamed. The woman picked it up enthusiastically and drank it slowly, shovelling it, as if she were alone.

Mycroft looked at his boyfriend, bordering on a nervous breakdown, and the DI shrugged. He told Mycroft as they got there that they had to wait until she started talking. One unwelcome commentary and she would leave, and they would lose the only clue they had.

And if someone with Sherlock's verbal incontinence learned to keep his mouth shut waiting for information from his confidant, it was clear that Mycroft could do it.

She finished the coffee, licking her lips with gusto.

"He's not going to find his brother," she said to Lestrade, nodding to Mycroft.

"Why?"

"Because to do that, he would have to pull the stick out of his ass and talk to me. But truly talk to me. Without Holmesiades."  
Lestrade snorted. Mycroft cast him a warning glance, and Lestrade turned to look at the river, biting his lips to keep from laughing.

"Sherlock does it," she asserted and laughed again, amused. Lestrade nodded to confirm to him what she was saying was true. Mycroft stretched out further as if to display his authority over her, looking at her reproachfully, the kind of look he used to terrorize people. She was not impressed in the least.

"Come on. You want to prove you are better than Sherlock at everything, don't you?' she asked, her little grey eyes shining.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, feeling as transparent to the woman as the others were to him. There was no point in pretending any longer. He nodded, blinking quickly and repeatedly as if his brain couldn't quite understand what was going on. And Mycroft Holmes wasn't used to that feeling.

"Untie your tie and come here,' invited the woman, patting the bench beside her. "Oh, don't make that face, it's nothing sexual. You can't relax with a collar so tight."

Mycroft loosened his tie and popped the first button on his shirt, puzzled for the first time. Somehow, that woman climbed up on the pedestal from which he was looking at the world.

"Satisfied?" he grunted, although he could not deny he felt better.

"Behind Blackbushe Airport, there is a privately owned estate. Across the wire, about ten miles down a country road, there is a small hangar.

"And?" huffed Mycroft.

"That's all."

"Are you sure?" asked Lestrade.

She raised an eyebrow to the DI.

"That's not the right question, Lestrade."

Lestrade racked his brains.

"We don't have time for games," Mycroft gurgled. "We need to find my brother. He's in danger."

The woman shook her head.

"He's where he has to be."

Mycroft looked at her again, tilting his head, scanning her face.

"He is not going alone, is he?"

"Of course he's not going alone. He's not stupid."

"Who's he going with?"

"Jake, Pete, Mark, Rob, Patrick, Sholto..."

"Wait a minute, do you know them? Are they homeless? Sherlock has gone off to Afghanistan with a bunch of homeless?" shouted Mycroft.

The woman looked at him, offended.

"No, he is gone off with a bunch of Afghan war veterans. The only difference between them and the rest is they live on the street." she snapped to her feet and cast an eloquent glance at Mycroft.

She walked away quickly, her head held high, her gestures graceful. Halfway through, she turned to them.

"You shouldn't take everything for granted, Mycroft Holmes," she shouted, annoyed. "Years ago, I was like you."

"Brilliant, Myc," sighed Lestrade. "At least Sherlock is in good hands," he muttered.

"In good hands? Did you listen to her? They are homeless! They could be mad, or…, or…"

"Their being on the streets does not invalidate the military experience they have, their knowledge of the terrain. Do you think Sherlock has chosen them at random? I highly doubt it."

"But..."

"But nothing, Mycroft. Think of John. He came back from Afghanistan, with only a government pension, no help from his family, limping, PTSD, with no chance of regaining his career as a surgeon … he might have ended up like them if Standford hadn't introduced him to Sherlock. Sherlock himself could have ended up living on the street because of his addiction if it wasn't for you. The only difference between them and John or Sherlock is nobody helped them".

Mycroft inhaled deeply, impressed by Lestrade's words, realizing he was right.

"I didn't see it that way, I'm sorry." Mycroft conceded.

"Besides, so does Sholto" Lestrade had been going on about the name until he remembered who he was. "John served under him in Afghanistan. I met him at his wedding."

"The one they were trying to kill because he lost all his men in an ambush... Reassuring..."

"That's enough, Myc. That's what we got—nothing else. I don't understand why Sherlock doesn't give us all the information at once, dammit!" snarled the DI.

"Because he wants to control every step we take. It's like one of those treasure hunts we used to play at as kids. Each clue leads to the next,"

Mycroft sighed.

"Sherlock knew something wasn't right. He still hasn't figured out what it is. That's why he wants us to follow in his footsteps at the right distance for him. He wants a controlled cavalry."

"A caval...? Oh, controlled reinforcements. What do we do now, then?"

"Go to the airfield," Mycroft walked to the street where the car was waiting, followed by Lestrade. He stopped and grabbed his phone.

"Anthea, any results on decrypting my brother's notes? But it can't be that hard to decipher! I could have done it in ten minutes!!!!"

There was silence as Mycroft walked up and down the sidewalk listening to Anthea's news.

"WHAT?" the elder Holmes' roar echoed across the square, "but how could anyone possibly have detected it? And flight control?" New incredulous silence. "Why do we have a Secret Service? Why is everyone so incredibly incompetent?!!!!" he yelled.

Lestrade was silent for a few seconds, while Mycroft fumed, mumbling something incomprehensible through his teeth. The DI knew his concern caused his boyfriend's anger.

"What's going on?" he ventured to ask at last.

"A Cessna Citation has taken off from the hangar said by the..., by the purple woman."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, not understanding.

"It's the fastest private plane in the world. It can reach 717 miles per hour. Some of them, like this one, are covered with a special paint layer that makes them invisible to radar," he shook his head. "When I find Sherlock, I'm going to rip his skin off, I don't care if Mummy gets upset, I will rip HIS SKIN OFF!!!" he shouted, clenching his fists in a frustrated, furious and worried gesture.

After a few more minutes of shouting threats to Sherlock, he stopped and grabbed the umbrella's handle. This gesture seemed to calm him down. He looked at his watch.

"They must be about to land. At the speed of the Cessna Citation, it will take them about six hours to get there," he calculated.

"That's a lot of head start," Lestrade observed.

"It's no problem. We can shorten it. The only thing... "Mycroft took his phone, "Anthea, Joe Spinner needs to be moved in thirty minutes and arrive in one hour," he nodded a couple of times and hung up.

"Who's Joe Spinner?"

Mycroft sighed and frowned, staring at his boyfriend for a few seconds. Lestrade rubbed his eyes. He knew that look.

"What else haven't you told me?"

"Mike's rescue operation was... clandestine, in some way. Only a few of us knew about it. If my name comes up connected with the request for a hypersonic aircraft, mobilizing troops near it..."

Lestrade breathed deep and pinched the bridge of his nose. If that happened, everything would be uncovered, and Mycroft would be in serious trouble.

He felt again like yelling at him, like at NSY, Baker Street, and Molly's house. To ask him how he had gotten the idea to send John there. But he knew it wouldn't do Mycroft any good to have to shoulder not only his worries and guiltiness but his boyfriend's anger as well. He decided he would dot the I's and cross the t's when they found Sherlock and John.

"Does Anthea know what to do?"

"Of course, she does."

"You're not thinking of going there, are you?"

Mycroft nodded. Lestrade rubbed his mouth, nervous. That was fucking crazy.

"Two things. One, you hate legwork. Two, you forgot the letter?"

"Two things: Yes, I hate legwork, but I put John and my brother in there, and I can't stay in the office now waiting for news. As much as I hate it, I know how to do it. And two. No, I haven't forgotten the letter, and that's why I'm going to look for them."

"And if you disappear too? This shit starts looking like the damn Bermuda Triangle."

"I won't disappear. And the Bermuda Triangle thing is..."

"Don't dare to give me a pep talk," Lestrade hissed. "When do we go?"

"No, you're staying."

"No, I'm going."

"No, you stay. I'll keep you informed of my progress."

Lestrade watched him for a few seconds.

"Okay," he conceded.

Mycroft looked at him, surprised, and scrutinized his face, trying to read his boyfriend's true intentions. But Lestrade's face didn't show anything else. He nodded, a little disappointed. He never thought that Lestrade would be inclined not to accompany him. Although he had pushed him to do so, it was because he wanted to know if Lestrade would stand by him, but…, bloody relationship gibberish!

His phone vibrated.

"Anthea set everything," he muttered.

Lestrade nodded.

"Do you trust her?"

"A hundred per cent, she is loyal to me."

"It's okay. See you around then,"

Lestrade turned on his heels, walked to the nearest cab stand, and disappeared into one of them.

Mycroft lowered his head, distressed. The only reason for this behaviour was Lestrade was mad with him, and, like the others, he held him responsible for John's and Sherlock's disappearance, though he didn't want to tell him.

He sighed, noticing how his stomach shrank at the thought of the coldness with which he had said goodbye. He feared this was the end of their relationship. Lestrade had never let him down, until now. The DI was going to break up with him. There was no other explanation.

Mycroft shook his head. He had a flight to catch. He buttoned up his shirt and tied his tie back on, ignoring the stifling sensation it produced. He lifted his head in his usual posh manner and, trying not to think of Lestrade, walked to the car. For lacking of heart, it hurt too much.

******  
In Mycroft's office, Anthea hung up after informing her boss everything was ready. She was sitting in Mycroft's armchair, her legs on the table, leaning on Sherlock's encrypted sheets they collected from Baker Street.

She smiled. The moment she had been waiting for so long finally arisen. 

She picked up the phone and dialled it.

"Mycroft Holmes' operation is underway," she reported when they picked up the phone on the other end.

*******

"I had forgotten what this fucking hell is," Pete grumbled, setting foot on the dry, rocky, and dusty ground of Kandahar; the rest grunted to prove their agreement.

Sholto watched them. No one would say that the seven soldiers getting off the plane in Kandahar six hours later were the same tattered ones who came up to the airfield near London. Cut or shaved hair, shaved beards, new clothes, and focused on the mission, they were almost unrecognizable. Sherlock decided they would do it during the flight so as not to raise suspicions of the Yard or Mycroft's men.

"They could have done before taking off. No one would have noticed. No one ever looks at them," replied Sholto, referring to the homeless.

"No one ever looks at a homeless who looks like a homeless," retorted Sherlock.

Sholto didn't reply. John told him about the detective's addiction, and it wasn't difficult for him to picture the man lying in some alleyway, high on drugs, clearly visible among the homeless.

They walked away from the plane, rolled down the runway, and hid behind a small hill of red dirt.

"How long will it take?" he asked.

"Just long enough for the plane to leave Afghan airspace," Sherlock replied, pulling his phone out of one of his trouser pockets and scrolling the messages.

The Major watched him as the detective covered his face and hands with SPF 90 vampire factor sunscreen, as Jake, another member of the team named it.

It was amazing how he could be impeccably dressed even in the middle of the desert, even wearing the same clothes as the others, black cotton shirt, and windproof desert trousers. Sholto could not help noticing, made the detective's fabulous ass stand out even more.

"Come on, Commander," Pete mocked, giving him a little nudge, noticing what he was looking at.  
Sholto chuckled

"There's nothing wrong with daydreaming."

Pete chuckled while Sherlock kept a small cooler inside his backpack. Sholto frowned and walked over to his side.

"What's that?"

"None of your business, Major."

"If I see anything I don't like, I'll kick your ass home, understand, Detective?"

"Here, they come."

Three rickety 4x4s moved forward slowly, kicking up red clay dust in their wake.

"Weren't there any older ones?"

"Don't be fooled by appearances, Major. Or did you want two shiny new 4x4 running through a desert full of mercenaries?"

Both vehicles stopped a few feet away from them. The drivers, two Pashtun men, got out and approached Sherlock.

"Whenever you're ready, sir."

"Don't tell me you've solved a case here, too, and you owe him a favor."

"Something like that," smirked Sherlock.

He shook their hands and spoke to them briefly in a mixture of English and Pashtun. They helped the soldiers load the luggage into the cars, except for Sherlock's backpack, that the detective would not let go.

He, Sholto, Jake, and Pete got into one of the cars, Mark and Rod in the next. In the third car, only the driver was traveling.

Sholto looked at Sherlock in admiration. As he said, those 4x4s, similar to those used by the Afghans to move around or take the few foreigners that showed up, had potent engines that made them go at full speed along the rocky esplanade and, fortunately, also a new suspension.

They soon came within a hundred yards of where Mike was supposed to be held. Sherlock Sholto and the soldiers climbed to the top of the hill and lay down on it to watch him.

"This place was supposed to be abandoned?" asked Jake, surprised, putting on his cap as he looked through his binoculars at what at first glance looked like a nomad's shelter. "The vents can be seen a mile away, there, there and there," he pointed out three holes in the ground on the north, south, and east sides of the building.

Sherlock looked at the photos Mycroft's men had sent him. Not the slightest sign of the vents. He passed them on to the others.

"Perhaps they were covered up to take the pictures," Sholto ventured.

"No, they would then have to remove the sand from the vents they wouldn't risk blocking them," said Mark.

"And it's easy to guess that there's something underneath. See the undulations of the ground around the building?" observed Rob.

The others nodded.

Sherlock listened quietly. However it was done, it was clear the aim was to give false information to those who received the photographs:

"Come on, be careful." Ordered Sholto.

They went slowly down the hill, crouching behind the little bushes, watching for any movement. They went down to the foot of the building and entered it. Apart from mats on the floor and dusty cups, they found nothing else.

Sherlock advanced, but Sholto grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him back so hard that the detective could do nothing about it.

"Stay behind me. Leave it to us."

"Major..." Sherlock wasn't going to let me tell him what to do.

"Son, you are on my turf now. If we storm London, you'll give the orders. Until then, behind me. We're soldiers, and you're a civilian."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know this looks dead. But we don't know what's under there. If you die, you won't be able to help John. And I'd hate to be the one to have to explain to Three Containers Watson his husband was shot in the head for letting him run around Afghanistan like in a wedding hall."

The soldiers looked at them in surprise. Sherlock bit his lower lip. Sholto raised his eyebrows.

"Just securing the area," Sholto grunted.

Sherlock nodded, resigned, swallowing his pride.

The Major was surprised at how quickly he obeyed. One night at the pub with John, both of them quite drunk, the doctor told him that just mentioning John's welfare was enough to make the detective - almost - obedient.

At a signal from Sholto, the soldiers deployed throughout the place. After the small entrance, the area was clear, so they quickly secured it.

"Here's a trap door," announced one of them. Sherlock closed his eyes, praying John and the others would be down there. Jake and Mark opened it and pointed their guns at the stairs. Not a move: They came down slowly, one after the other.

The lower area looked the same as the upper one. Some mats on the floor abandoned water bottles and little else.

"It was built expressly to set a trap for John and his team," observed Sherlock.

"What do you mean?"

"No cots, no barracks, nothing like that. Even if they had picked up, if it were a permanent base, there would be something else left. And certainly, no prisoner has been held here for ten years."

Sherlock went to the wooden planks that formed the wall and ran his finger through the dirt in between them.

"They built the top, took the pictures, and dug up the lower level. They only had to make a hole and shore it up with wood," he observed, trying to contain his voice tremor.

He closed his eyes, trying to fight the fear of having lost John forever. 

"And fill it with soldiers," Sholto added, "your brother put John in a hornet's nest."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, angry, worried, and scared, about to scream. His worst nightmare, losing John, could come true. He swallowed with difficulty the lump in his throat. The pieces of the puzzle he wasn't able to shape in his head the day Mycroft talked with Jonh about the case started to come together.

As unlikely as it was, it was the only possible explanation. And if he was right, Sholto was right. They had stuck their foot in a hornet's nest. In a fucking Asian Giant Hornet nest. And, trapped inside it, John and his team.

Sherlock looked around, desperate for finding something that gave him a clue about where they could have taken John.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to curse, to smash that bloody place. Instead of it, he remained silent, almost motionless, forcing his brain to keep working, searching, analyzing, trying to beat a fear that strangled his heart, leaving him breathless.

He could lose John.


	4. You took everything from me

Mycroft cursed to himself as the car drove him to the military airfield from which they were leaving. He was... no, not scared. Mycroft Holmes was never scared or, if he was, he didn't recognize it. It wasn't fear, just restlessness and worry, he said to himself. He shook his head. As much as he tried to lie to himself, this time he was really freaked out. If caring was never an advantage, now less than ever. 

He never made mistakes. Not out of presumption or false superiority. His massive intellect and his ability to read others almost always prevented him from making mistakes. So when he did, like before, the consequences were disastrous.

He felt guilty, frustrated, and lost, and he was not used to feeling this way or having feelings. Or feeling them. But Lestrade's influence on him, like John's on Sherlock, had been pernicious. Mycroft Holmes was beginning to have feelings. And he didn't know what to do with them. He missed Gregory while stroking his right cheek thinking it was better this way.

The car stopped near the hangar. He got out and walked quickly to the plane. He stopped in his tracks and opened his eyes widely.

Lestrade was coming towards him, walking purposefully through the tarmac, wearing a dark earth t-shirt, khaki camouflage pants and military boots. The tight T-shirt revealed Lestrade's muscular chest and abdomen, usually hidden behind the suits and coats he used for work.

The DI stride forward with his long legs, although to Mycroft's amazement, it seemed as if he was approaching him in slow motion. He covered his eyes with mirrored sunglasses, and carried his jacket on his back, hanging lazily from the index finger of his right hand.

Mycroft gulped and resorted to all of his legendary self-control to get the blood rushing down into his groin back into his brain.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in the harshest tone he could, which was certainly not much.

"Get on the plane," barked Lestrade in an authoritative tone.

Mycroft shuddered. Lestrade dressed in military gear and dominant was more than he could handle. One more word and he would be on his knees to him. He shook his head. The mission, the mission; he should focus on the task, though it was clear that Lestrade should keep the uniform.

He cleared his throat, not knowing what to say.

"You shouldn't come with me. It could be dangerous."

"Oh, and since I'm a poor clerk who sticks stamps..."

Lost battle. And, why deny it, Mycroft's heart expanded on seeing him arrive. It meant Lestrade wasn't going to abandon him. The thought of leaving without him proved harder than Mycroft expected.

"Sir?" one of Mycroft's agents approached them. "We leave in two minutes."

Lestrade observed the plane behind Mycroft. An aircraft out of a science fiction movie. Highly streamlined shape, flat underside, short wings, and propellers integrated into the fuselage.

"What is that?"

"Hypersonic aircraft. Invisible to radars, surveillance satellites, even to the human eye, at night...Of course, it does not exist," warned Mycroft. "It will take us less than an hour to go there."

Lestrade's face lit up.

"Wow! I wonder what other toys your Secret Service has," exclaimed, watching the agents quickly load the equipment onto the plane.

"There are only four of us?"

"Once we land, a support team will be waiting for us to go into the desert."

"Any news about Sherlock? John?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"They'll be fine."

"I hope so."

*******

John groaned, blinking. The pain in his shoulder made him regain consciousness. At some point, as the rain of blows fell on him, the ripping pain of his shoulder made him, mercifully, passed out.

Finding that the water was useless, his torturers changed tactics and brought in a huge man with a cruel smile who hit him with all his might. Soon, the massive man lost his smile, exchanging it for a supreme gesture of anger and frustration. He was accustomed to make his victims scream in pain or beg for mercy. Still, the stubborn blond soldier made not the slightest sound at the rain of blows he unleashed upon him. Sometimes he even looked at him defiantly, raising an eyebrow as if to say, _is this the best you can do_?

He only managed to make him scream when he hung the prisoner from a hook in the ceiling of his wrist restraints. This forced John, to avoid pain and further damage to his shoulder, to bear his weight with his left arm the best he could, until, exhausted, his muscles trembling from the strain, his brain dizzy from the pain of the blows, he couldn't take it anymore and let himself go. The outburst of the pain of his damaged shoulder was so brutal he blacked out.

He was still hanging on by his wrists. They sent him back with Bill and the others, hoping the pain would make him give up. When they left him in, they dragged Jonas out. If they couldn't force John to call, their captors would get one of the others to do it. But they were all turning out to be just equally stubborn.

Confused, John noticed the ground where his feet rested was soft. Until he realized his feet were resting on Bill's legs, who, tied to the post, had stretched them so that John could lean on them and not hurt his shoulder anymore.

"Welcome to the world of the living," he heard his friend say.

John chuckled dimly.

"I don't know if, in this case, it's grounds for celebration."

Bill let go of a dry mumble. His friend was about to say something, but he closed his mouth when the gate opened, and fifteen armed men came in. One of them held a beaten and bloody Jonas, pointing a gun at his head; the others untied John his friends, handcuffing them afterwards.

Their captors pushed them out of the building and away from it for about a hundred yards. Trembling, the five of them waited. At night, the temperature would not exceed two degrees. Pointing a gun at Jonas and John's heads, they untied Bill, Luke and Henry's hands. One of the men threw a shovel at each of them.

"Dig," he ordered.

The three soldiers looked at each other, gauging their chances of picking up the shovels and attacking their captors. But the risk of John and Jonas being shot was too considerable.

None of them needed to ask what they had to dig. They realized it at the moment they saw the shovels.

They began to do it slow and quietly. Digging into the dry, rocky desert soil was like digging into an iron block. Weakened after days of torture, not eating and barely drinking, each shovelling was hell.

********

Sherlock walked away from the tents where the group was sleeping. It was his turn to stand guard, so no one would notice his departure. He sat down on the ground, in the shelter of a small mound nearby, where he could still watch over the camp. When he was sure no one could hear him, he took his phone and made the video call to answer Molly's numerous lost calls.

"I'm sorry to bother you," the pathologist's worried face appeared on the screen. "But Rosie doesn't stop asking about you and John, and I don't know what to do anymore to calm her. Lestrade and Mycroft were here and... well, she's your daughter. Even though we all acted like everything is all right, and Rosie pretended to believe it, as soon as they left, she begged me to let her talk to you both, just a short phone call... She hasn't even gone to bed yet. I think she needs to know you both are all right... ".

Sherlock shook his head imperceptibly and bit his upper lip. Molly didn't need to ask about John. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

"Do you want me to call back later?"

"No, no, I'll try to calm her," mused Sherlock.

"Ok, I'm going to get her."

Sherlock nodded slightly. He took a couple of breaths, drank some water, and forced himself to smile and loosen the muscles in his face.

On the screen, he saw Rosie approaching the phone. He sadly noted her frown, the same John had when he was worried. And his heart shrank as the girl's face lit up when she saw him and ran to the phone.

"Papa!" the detective was grateful to be using headsets. Otherwise, Rosie's scream would have rung out across the plain.

"Hello Bumblebee, isn't it a bit late for you to be up?" Sherlock chided her tenderly.

Rosie smiled, brushing a lock of blonde hair from her face with one hand and nodded.

"But I wanted to talk to you and Daddy" she made a Sherlockian pout that forced the detective to smile. "Where's Daddy?"

"He's still working. An emergency."

Rosie nodded, disappointed, and frowned again.

"I wanted to talk to him. I haven't spoken to him in many days. I… miss him," she whispered, her lower lip trembling a bit. Sherlock resorted to all his cold blood not to break down in front of her, deducing his daughter's unspoken question: is Daddy alright?

The detective forced himself to smile her reassuringly.

"Daddy also wanted to talk to you. He misses you a lot. But you have to be a little more patient, ok, sweetheart? Soon you could glue yourself to Daddy like a limpet".

Rosie giggled reluctantly and made a face of disgust. Sherlock hated himself for lying to his daughter, for giving her a hope that might not be fulfilled, but he didn't want to worry her further. Rosie knew something was going on even though she didn't know what.

"Daddy will heal them. He knows everything," asserted Rosie in a measured tone. Her words made Sherlock's brain start frantically searching for a connection in his memory. He closed his eyes, lost in his Mind Palace.

"Time to say goodbye to papa," announced Molly, and Rosie laughed, waving goodbye to him. Sherlock blinked and smiled.

"You know you're a brilliant girl, Rosie?"

"Obviously," she replied smugly.

Sherlock chuckled.

"And now off to bed. If John finds out you're awake at this time of the night..." threatened Sherlock in a mocking tone.

"Good night, Papa."

"Good night, Bumblebee."

The screen went black. Sherlock hid his face in his hands, feeling awful as a father, his mind still spinning on his daughter's words. Suddenly, he opened his eyes and lifted his head.

The detective looked around the tent. All quiet. He ran down to the Jeeps, opened the glove box, and pulled out a map of the area. The digital age was terrific but too traceable. He closed his eyes again and finally found what Rosie's words connected with. It was something John told him about Afghanistan: _In the desert, though it may not seem so, there are always eyes watching everything_.

He put the key in the ignition, and, when he was about to turn it, a hand landed on his shoulder, almost giving him a heart attack. So embedded in Rosie and John's words, he didn't realize Jake and Pete were sleeping in the back seat and woke up when he opened the door.

"Shouldn't he be watching the camp?" Jake asked mockingly.

Like John, their military past moved them from deepest sleep to full consciousness in tenths of a second.

"Yes, he should have been watching the camp," answered Pete.

Sherlock turned to them.

"Well, you'll keep watching now. Get out of the car. I have to go," answered the detective dryly.

They both shook their heads without moving an inch.

"As you wish."

The detective started the four-wheel drive and drove it westwards, along a narrow, rocky, uneven road.

"Where are we going?"

"Over here there is a Baluchi village, one of the few that didn't disappear with the drought. They are nomads and move through the desert."

Jake and Pete looked at each other, frowning. The light went into Pete's brain.

"And you think someone saw John and the others being taken away."

"What if they were taken by car?" asked Jake.

"No. Remember Mycroft's documents. Satellites located and controlled a military motorcade, and there was no trace of John or the others. It was the same as with the photos. Diversionary manoeuvring. They moved lots of cars, and lots of men, making a great deal of noise and dust, focusing everyone's attention. A magician's trick. While you look at one hand, you don't see what's going on with the other. The caravan was the decoy. Meanwhile, John and the others would be discreetly taken away. On horseback or riding camels, their captors. On foot the prisoners, under the desert sun, without water, without food... all to weak them physically and mentally, to later bend them more quickly". Sherlock's tone became darker as he spoke, his face contracted with fury, and his gaze became murderous, imagining John treated that way.

He would prefer to put the pedal to the metal, but in the total darkness around them, the headlights didn't provide enough light to see far enough away from the potholes that could swallow the vehicle. He didn't want to put the main beams on. They would be too easy a target.

Around half an hour later, he stopped near a small camp. He was about to get out of the car when Pete stopped him.

"They won't talk to you. Leave it to us. We know the language and their customs."

"If you insist on come with us, they'll shut up and say nothing," added Jake.

Sherlock swore silently. But he knew they were both right.

Jake and Pete spent eight years in that country until Jake was shot in a firefight. They become good friends on the base, and Pete decided to go back to England with him. Within months of returning, both ended up living on the streets. Neither spoke of the reasons that had led to it, but Sherlock didn't need to ask: the PTSD made them lose their families, their work, what led them to lack of money, and finally, the street. They soon became part of Sherlock's homeless network. The ability to observe without being seen was coupled with their military training. When Sherlock appeared explaining what happened to John, both had accepted going back to Afghanistan without hesitation.

He watched them walk away and settled down in the seat to wait. He swallowed the tears, the fear, the despair, the anger. _John is fine_ , he repeated to himself, trying to calm and convince himself. _John is fine. John is fine_. But, somehow, it sounded like a lie to him.

Jake and Pete got back in the car.

"You are a genius, no doubt about it," Jake said.

He sat down and unfolded a map so Sherlock could watch it.

"They saw a group of men walking toward the dunes. Several of them riding camels. Five on foot, foreigners. They were following an ancient nomadic route" he pointed to the blue line the informer drew on the map.

Sherlock turned as he heard the number. The others nodded.

"Let's go back to camp. We have to move fast," the detective ordered.

This time he speeded up as much as he could, forgetting all precautions, so they could arrive at the camp as soon as possible to follow John and his team's steps.

*****

"What now?" asked Lestrade, turning in front of the warehouse that Sherlock and the others had just left half an hour ago.

The five SAS who joined him and Mycroft as soon as they set foot in Afghanistan confirmed both the building and the surrounding area were empty. They found fresh tire tracks, but the beginning of the sandstorm had erased them within a few meters. Mycroft walked silently on the half-erased footprints of the 4 x 4, scrutinizing the surroundings. When the SAS informed him of the existence of the basement, the world fell in on him. But he was, above all, a Holmes and could easily focus his mind on searching for data, raising an effective barrier over any emotion that might disturb his processing.

"There, sir."

Mycroft and Lestrade followed the direction in which the SAS captain was pointing.

"What's that?" asked Lestrade, looking at the small mound of stones piled up anyway.

"It's a cairn," answered Mycroft, as if that would explain everything.

"Elaborate," asked Lestrade, rolling his eyes.

"It indicates a route, usually at a point where walkers or hikers can get lost. Sherlock and I used them when we were kids. I was tired of having to look for him in the woods and beaches surrounding Musgrave when he vanished with Victor playing for hours. We agreed he would leave these signs so that I could find him easily. Captain, we're leaving. I'll show you the way."

The man nodded and gestured to his men, who walked quickly to the enormous black Kamaz Master truck parked a few meters away. Mycroft sat down next to the driver and set a course on the GPS. Lestrade settled down behind him as the vehicle drove into the desert.

********

Bill, Luke, and Henri threw the shovels. Exhausted, their hands bleeding, they sat on the edge of the last of the holes they had dug.

The fake British soldier approached John.

"Last chance, Doctor Watson," he laid the phone down again. "Make the call, or it's all over."

John turned his head away, casting a murderous glance at him, full of contempt and determination.

"Fuck you," he spat.

"Bring him here!" he ordered.

The men holding him dragged John to the edge of the hole and forced him to his knees. The leader pulled out a gun and pointed it at John's forehead.

"Call him, or I'll blow your brains out," he threatened, "yours and everyone else's."

John hesitated. Putting his life on the line was one thing. But those of his friends...

"Go to hell" Bill's sore and drowsy murmur was chanted by grunts of acquiescence from the others.

John smirked, his broken lip stretching painfully. He looked the fake soldier in the eyes and raised his head, taking care to vocalize well:

"Fuck. You."

The false soldier tilted his head and rested the barrel against the doctor's temple while removing the weapon's safety. John swallowed with difficulty and pressed his head against the barrel.

"Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

John thought of Sherlock and Rosie.

And he couldn't think of anything else.

***********

The truck rolled through the desert, moving quickly through the sandstorm that came out of nowhere. Just the bumping of the sand against the truck's frame would occasionally startle its passengers.

Mycroft stared at the window, though the sand clouds made it impossible to see anything. He knew that Lestrade, sitting in the seat on the other side, was watching him, trying to read the impenetrable and cynical mask he knew how to show so well. But he didn't dare to look him in the eye; the weight of all the lives he had endangered was becoming unbearable. He brushed his right cheek, wishing he could turn back the clock, but he was trapped. His only hope was that, from one moment to the next, a message would warn them that John and the others had been found safe and sound.

Almost as if answering his prayers, his phone vibrated with the tone of an incoming message.

Lestrade watched the older Holmes relax before reading it. He could feel his boyfriend's neck painfully tense from the anguish. His back, straighter than ever from the strain of stress, seemed to expand. Mycroft opened the phone, read the message, and the phone fell from his open hand.

"What's going on, Myc?" he asked, worried.

Mycroft didn't answer. He stood, looking into the void, his brain unable to process information.

"Mycroft, what's wrong?" Greg's tone was more compelling.

He bent down and picked up the phone. As he read it, his legs failed, and he dropped to the floor. He reread it, hoping he misunderstood. But the message was clear and concise.

" _John Watson and his team. Executed_."

His brain locked up, unable to concentrate on anything else but keeping gasping for air like a fish out of water, trying to get oxygen into his lungs.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft's chocked whisper reactivated Lestrade's course of thought. 

He took the phone and put it in his boyfriend's hand, who looked at it as if he didn't know what it was.

"Major Sholto's number!" Lestrade ordered.

He shook Mycroft, exasperated.

"Get me the number of Major Sholto!"

Mycroft nodded, like an automaton. He opened the phone and pressed the key that connected directly to Anthea.

"Get me Major Sholto," he ordered, his tone inexpressive and absent. 

Lestrade heard the connecting tone and took the phone from Mycroft's hand.

"Come on, come on," he mumbled, praying that the Major would have it with him, "Pick up the phone, pick it up, pick it up."

********

Sholto, walkie-talkie in hand, watched Sherlock from the top of the dune. He and his men had to lock him in one of the cars. The detective had no intention of stopping because of the sandstorm and seemed determined to get into it to continue on his way, going alone, if necessary. But the Major was unwilling to let John's husband get lost in a sandstorm, no matter how smart he was. He would not be the first to disappear, unaware of the danger, swallowed up by the sand clouds.

After cursing and threatening them with all sorts of gruesome deaths, Sherlock tried in vain to break the bulletproof glass or deactivate the electric locks. Finally, accepting he could not escape, he decided to flee to his Mental Palace to endure the wait.

The only thing that calmed the infuriated Sherlock a bit was the promise that Sholto and Mark would go up the hill to look. If he had followed instructions correctly, they were close to where John and the others were kept prisoners.

Lying on the side of the dune near the top, they waited for Mark and Rob to return from surveying the place.

The Major ignored the phone that vibrated in his pocket four times. On the fifth, exasperated, he picked it up.

"Sholto," he barked.

"Major, this is DI Lestrade."

Sholto frowned. The man's tone of urgency put him under stress. He knew from John that Lestrade was a man of integrity in whom the doctor had complete confidence.

"You must hold Sherlock until we arrive."

He snorted.

"What for? So that his stupid brother can…?"

"Please, Major, it's important. We received..."

The walkie crackled at that moment, and Sholto put the phone away.

"Major?"

"Tell me, Mark."

"We're late."

Sholto closed his eyes, desolate, assimilating the three words a rescue team was most afraid to hear.

"Shit, shit, shit," he cursed in a low voice, memories strangling him. Once more, he lost them all. Once again, he failed. When he decided to accompany Sherlock to rescue John, he thought it would be a chance to redeem himself. To escape the nightmares, memories, and guilt that haunted him since the day he was the only one in Afghanistan to survive after a raid by his team into enemy territory. And now, a new hell was opening at his feet.

He wanted to scream, rant against everything and everyone, and cry out to heaven to disappear.

"Major?" Lestrade's voice mixed with the wail of the sandy wind.

******

Lestrade bit his lower lip, trying to contain the anguish, the pain that was tearing at his heart. He swallowed with difficulty, wondering how to say it to Mycroft.

He didn't have to. The elder Holmes watched him, hopefully for a millisecond, and then shattered. He never hated his deductive abilities as much as he did at that moment.

"Maybe they are wrong," he whispered, clinging to a, he knew it, weak and futile hope,

"They found the graves."

Lestrade felt as if the oxygen in the truck had suddenly gone, or time had stopped. Mycroft looked at him with glazed eyes, not seeing him. SAS officers gazed at them silently. They knew how it was to lose a friend on the battlefield.

"They're sending you a location, Sergeant," Lestrade informed the driver.

Lestrade was surprised to be able to give orders. He detached himself from the emotional part, from the part that was compromised by the pain of losing John, and only acted with his rational side, guided only by the idea of arriving as soon as possible with Sherlock.

A red light appeared on the screen of the sergeant's dashboard.

"We'll be there in thirty minutes," he reported.

"Make it ten," Lestrade ordered.

The sergeant nodded.

"Buckle up."

Lestrade approached Mycroft, who remained motionless.

"You heard him. Buckle up."

Sherlock's older brother did not attempt to move.

"Mycroft..."

Lestrade put the belt on him, did the same in his, and nodded. The driver started up and sped off to the point marked by the GPS.

*********

Sholto shuddered. Sherlock Holmes was the closest to a Jedi Knight he ever knew. He couldn't have heard the conversations, because the strong wind's wail that dragged sand from one side to the other and the distance the car was in. But, like a Jedi Knight who senses a disturbance in the Force, as soon as Sholto hung up, the detective opened his eyes.

And, as the Major knew, when Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, he saw everything.

"Sholto?" he heard him ask, a note of extreme concern in his voice.

"Nothing yet!" It was the first thing he thought to say, cursing in his heart. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He noticed the uneasiness, the sadness, and the worry that was dragging on Sholto's tone. The tenth of a second too long for him to answer. Sholto was lying.

"Jake, open the fucking door!" he shouted, pounding on the glass with both feet all with his might. The blows became more frantic when Sherlock realized neither Jake nor Peter moved.

Pete looked sideways at Sholto, who nodded.

He unlocked the doors, and the detective stormed out of the car. He climbed the dune at full speed until he reached the Major, aware that he avoided looking at him. He looked at the premises under the dune. Too quiet and silent.

Sholto turned and saw the dust the truck was raising, driving into an open grave. Sherlock followed his gaze and cursed mumblingly.

"What's going on, Major? Look at me for fuck's sake!" he bellowed, grabbing his arm and forcing the man to turn around.

The detective's eyes, full of fury, filled with fear when Sholto turned around.

"Son, something happened."

He couldn't say anything more. Sherlock madly ran down the dune, shouting John's name at the top of his lungs.

He turned as he heard the truck's brakes squeal as the skilled driver easily lowered the dune. Sherlock entered the building, a warehouse completely clear except for several metal columns and... empty. The Major rushed down behind him, while the detective ran across to the other side.

The detective froze.

Five pits, parallel to each other, recently dug, as Sherlock noticed, looking at the slightly darker ground. The detective tried to move, but his muscles didn't obey him, gripped by a deep terror, an infinite fear he didn't want to put a name to. 

Sholto and the homeless stopped behind him, desolate. They were joined by the SAS, who just got out of the truck. Lestrade approached Sherlock and put his hand on his shoulder.

"It doesn't have to be them, Sherlock."

The detective didn't respond. He looked at the graves as if hypnotized. He knew he had to get close, to examine them, but he couldn't.

Suddenly, a flash in the dusk light caught his attention. He ran to the nearest grave, stirred the ground, and drew something out of the dirt. Sholto and the other soldiers lowered their heads and closed their eyes in grief. Lestrade and Mycroft paled, realizing what Sherlock had in his hands.

Dog tags.

The detective left them on the disturbed ground. Sholto approached him.

"Luke Sheridan" read aloud.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," murmured Sherlock, running to the next grave. With both hands, he frantically removed dirt, throwing gravel and soil in all directions until he found the dog tags.

"Bill Murray."

Tears rolled down Sherlock's cheeks as he ran to the next one.

"Please, no, please, no, please, …" he kept repeating.

Blinded by the tears, he couldn't find them. Jake went over to help him, but the detective pushed him hard away.

"Don't touch them!" he bellowed through the tears but kept looking for. "Don't touch them!" he sobbed, leaving other dog tags on the sand after cleaning them.

"Jonas Lombard."

The detective rushed to the next grave, never ceasing to mutter. He dug his hands into the dirt. He didn't need to read the dog tag's name. Sherlock fell to his knees and pressed them to his chest, swinging back and forth, sobbing hard.

He threw his head back, looking at the sky, wails shaking his body. He shook his head, refusing to accept John was there, and then he threw himself forward until he let his head touched the dirt, sobbing loudly.

Suddenly, he stopped crying. Panting, Sherlock raised his upper body, staring at John's grave with blurred eyes. The detective turned his head slowly until he fixed his brother with a misguided gaze, torn by pain.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why, Mycroft? Why did you have to send him? Why couldn't you leave us alone?"

The detective stood up, tears rolling down his jaw and falling to the ground, his face contracted both with grief and a threatening gesture. Sholto stepped forward to get in front of the detective and turned to Lestrade.

"Get him out here' he ordered, referring to Mycroft.

"Answer me," the detective sleepwalked to him, his voice strangled by crying and agony but quiet and hard at the same time. "I WANT TO KNOW WHY!!!"

Sherlock's cry echoed across the desert. Mycroft opened his mouth, but he was unable to speak back.

"Take him away!" Sholto commanded again, in a more urgent tone. 

Sherlock continued to advance towards Mycroft. Lestrade pulled him to the truck, but the older Holmes did not move, his eyes glued on John's grave, desolation painted on his face.

"He will come back in a week," hissed Sherlock, imitating his brother's voice. "Why are you making such a fuss, Sherlock? It's a simple mission. How you like to dramatize, little brother!"

Mycroft groaned like a wounded animal at the last words.

"I..." he babbled at last, in a barely audible tone, "I... couldn't... I only..."

Sherlock looked at him, shaking his head in pain. His angry gesture disappeared, giving way to infinite sadness, absolute desolation, slowly sinking back into the dark void that was his only companion until he met John.

"You took everything from me," he muttered.

He returned to John's grave, lay down beside him, hid his face in his hands, and began to sob again.

Lestrade pulled his boyfriend into the truck to keep him away from the other's accusing gaze. Mycroft looked at Lestrade, shattered.

"What have I done, Gregory?" he asked, defeated.

Lestrade didn't answer. He didn't want to say it out loud. He forced Mycroft to take a sedative and collapsed on one of the seats, sobbing quietly, letting out all the pain inside.

Half an hour later, the loose Major entered the truck and approached him. He noticed the DI's swollen, red eyes, his empty gaze, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Sholto knew that was a foolish question.

Lestrade shook his head.

"I can't stop thinking about Sherlock's protests when Mycroft gave John the documentation on Mike. His desperation, his warnings that nobody listened..."

"Don't torture yourself," he clumsily advised. "John was a soldier. He knew the risks involved in the operation, all of them knew that" he said, trying to comfort himself as well as Lestrade.

He looked at Mycroft, who was sleeping in one of the horizontal seats.

"How is he?"

"I had to double the sedative," Lestrade replied, watching him with concern. "And Sherlock?"

The Major walked up to the window; Lestrade stood next to him. Outside, lying on the ground by John's grave, Sherlock was shivering with cold.

"He's going to freeze, but there's no way to get him out of there. At least with the sedative, he is calmer."

The two of them stared at him in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock, eyes closed, one hand on the grave soil, spoke quietly to John.

"I was by his side through his worst times, while he was detoxing," muttered Lestrade, "while he was going through hell. I never ever saw him like that."

"Do you think he' will ever get over it?"

"I hope so, for his daughter."

Sholto nodded.

"Tomorrow, when we return to London, perhaps everything will be easier for him."

Lestrade did not answer. He remembered John's devastation after Sherlock's fake suicide. How he left behind Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade himself, how he gave up everything that had ever been his world, because it reminded him so much of Sherlock and it tore him apart, how John disappeared and was never heard from again until two years later.

"You should also try to get some rest," advised the Major. "We have a long, hard day ahead of us tomorrow." 

Lestrade nodded, taking one last look at Sherlock, who, shivering violently, continued to cling to John's grave. He got a lump in his throat as he realized Sherlock placed the blankets they gave him to cover himself over the tomb, as if he wanted to protect John from the cold.

He wiped away his tears and watched Mycroft, who was moving and muttering in his sleep, uneasy. How could he have been so wrong?

Lestrade refused to think about the next day. As Sholto said, he needed to rest.

A couple of hours later, Lestrade woke up with a start. He frowned, not knowing what had awakened him. Beside him, Mycroft slept, stirring, restless, under the effect of the sedatives. The rest, distributed as best they could between the seats and the floor, rested as well.

He heard Sherlock laughing maniacally, and his stomach shrank. A shrill, sharp laugh that the detective never let go before. That was what had woken him up. A burst of new laughter made his heart shrink.

Sherlock broke down.

Lestrade woke up again three hours later with a headache and thirsty. He got up and went to drink water while the rest were still asleep.

He drank eagerly, filled his glass again, and returned to Mycroft. Sherlock's brother looked terrible: large dark circles under his eyes, red and swollen from crying. All his haughtiness, phlegm, and self-confidence had been replaced by a sad air and an insecure look, hard to recognize in him. Lestrade gave him a glass of water, which Mycroft refused.

"You have to drink."

His boyfriend shook his head.

"Myc, we are in the desert, and you took sedatives. You have to drink."

"I have to die," mused the elder Holmes.

Lestrade bit his lips and held back a sob, shattered.

"No, you have to drink and get well. You have to help Sherlock."

Mycroft lowered his head, and tears rolled down his cheeks. He held a trembling hand to his face, wiped away the tears, and looked down at his wet fingers.

"What is it?"

Mycroft lowered his head and breathed in sharply as if he needed encouragement to answer. He stared as this wet hand with a mixture of surprise and desolation.

"The last time I cried was when I told my parents Eurus died in the fire and helped Uncle Rudy lock her up in Sherrinford. I always thought there would be nothing worse I could do, anything more horrible in my whole life. And now... John is dead, Sherlock broken... and it's all my fault"... he shook his head. "They... I thought I had everything under control". 

"But you can't control everything. That's an illusion, Myc."

"Yes, I can," refused the elder Holmes, stubborn, "I have to."

Lestrade shook his head.

"No, you can't, Mycroft."

"It's not a question of power. It's my duty, Gregory. Because when I didn't control everything, my five-year-old sister threw Sherlock's best friend down a well, or set fire to the family home with my little brother in it, trying to kill him, or Sherlock got addicted, or …"

"Shhh, that's it, that's it, Mycroft."

Lestrade hugged him, understanding, for the first time, his need to be informed of everything down to the smallest detail. His obsessive surveillance of Sherlock, the "abductions..." of those who became part of his brother's life, the assumption he couldn't make the slightest mistake...

"Why don't you say so?" Mycroft's tone was a mixture of anger and grief.

"What?"

"I told you so."

"It would be easy to tell you now. And it wouldn't be fair. You made the decision based on what you knew at the time, and you thought it was the best one."

"But you told me to think twice, that something might go wrong. How did you know something could go wrong?"

Lestrade watched him with a mixture of sorrow and tenderness. It caused him tenderness to see how far from reality Mycroft sometimes lived, immersed in his world of spies, cameras, and control.

"Because you can't control everything. No matter how many holes you plug up, there's always one from where the water comes out."

"But nobody can live like that."

"Of course you can. The whole of humanity does."

"And how do they do it? How do you stand it, Lestrade?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"I don't know. Doing it, I guess."

Little by little, the others woke up, thirsty, like them. Sholto was near the trailer door when it opened, and Pete and Jake came in, whispering and giggling.

"Major, we have two stories, good and bad news."

"Lieutenant, this is no time for jokes," snarled Sholto.

"It's no joke, One good and one bad," laughed Pete and Jake joined him.

Sholto sighed as Lestrade looked at them curiously. The amusing tone they used was shocking and inappropriate for the situation. Maybe it was a strange coping mechanism to affront it.

Sholto knew there was only one way to end it.

"What is the bad one?"

"The bad is Sherlock vanished," replied Jake, and they both laughed silly.

"Vanished?" cried Mycroft, standing up, worried, startling the rest. Lestrade gestured him to wait.

"And the good one?" Sholto feared the worst.

"John Watson is gone too."


	5. Anthea betrayed me?

Sherlock rode through the dunes at full speed in the motorcycle he commandeered from Mycroft's truck, cursing to himself. How could he not have noticed before? How could he have been so stupid and be fooled by such a crude trick?

The horror of John's death, the terror of losing him, had clouded his mind. He still trembled with the shock of losing John, even if it was only for a few hours. 

Last night, after lying down by John's grave for a while, he noticed one of the stones at the head of it had something drawn on it. His brain, slowed down by the sedative, interpreted it as John's farewell. Why would the doctor draw the letters SH on his grave if not to say goodbye to him?

Until the muzzle flashed in his head, John meant it was Sherlock Holmes' grave; the same Mycroft built after his fake suicide. 

An empty grave.

Still trembling with fear and anguish, he moved the stones and dug in the sand with both hands. At first, he did it slowly, terrified at the thought of running into John's inert body at any moment. But when he became convinced it was empty, he took pne of the shoves and dug until he reached the end of the hole. Empty. There was never anyone buried in it.

Unable to contain himself, he let out a couple of hysterical, maddening laughs.

John was alive!!!

On the run, he dug out the rest one by one, as empty as John's, but without any indication.

He returned to John's and carefully scanned the rest of the stones, turning them over. He found two others written down. The detective forced himself to ignore John wrote on them with the only thing he had at hand: his blood. He knew his handwriting well enough to know that the strokes, done in a hurry, were his work and not another trap.

Three stones. On one of them, his initials. On each of the other two, a number with decimals, and a capital letter. Geographical coordinates. Clever John, he made a stone age GPS. 

Sherlock cursed himself again. The pits weren't just a diversionary maneuver. They were a warning. Sherlock lost John once, and he wasn't going to miss him twice. But this time, he would do his own way.

First of all, he had to find a way to neutralize Mycroft and the rest, so he could leave by on his own, and then find a means of transport. He approached the Jeep and searched in his backpack. When he found what he was looking for, he smirked. 

******

Four of the SAS members, the homeless, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sholto, turned inward, gazing in amazement at the open graves, noting, as Sherlock did, they had always been empty.

"Sherlock took the motorbike, sir," reported the SAS fifth member, getting out of the truck and joining them.

"Impossible. He couldn't push a motorbike like that in the sand. Sooner or later, he had to get it started. How come nobody heard anything?" asked Mark.

As a response, the SAS laid a small spay container on the Captain's hand. Mycroft frowned at the sight of it.

"I can't believe it," he growled. 

"What is that?" asked Lestrade.

"Aerosol sedation. That's why we fell asleep and woke up so thirsty," replied the Sergeant.

"But I sedated him myself. How...?" replied Sholto, baffled.

"He was an addict. His body metabolizes sedatives and any kind of chemical faster than ours," replied Mycroft.

"So he realized John wasn't there, got in the truck, sprayed us the sedative, took the motorbike and _Hasta la vista, baby"_ related Pete in awe.

"Why?" roared Mycroft looking at Lestrade. "Why did he have to sedate us? Why go alone when he's got a team with him?

"Welcome to my world," grunted Lestrade, who asked himself the same question umpteen times, when, in the middle of a case, Sherlock shot out without waiting for anyone, not even John.

"I will kill him. I swear to God I will kill him this time! I will have him doing paperwork until he gets grey!" bellowed the elder Holmes, clenching his fists in anger and fear. 

Since he opened his eyes, he went through an emotional rollercoaster: the guilt and remorse over John's death, the desolation about Sherlock's despair. Then the thrilling of realizing John was alive and the concern and frustration of Sherlock going after him by himself, risking his life. He had been sad, exhausted, relieved, distressed, and now mad.

"How will we know which direction he headed?" Lestrade asked as Mycroft managed to calm himself down a bit, looking for another signpost mound.

"With that," Rob pointed to John's grave. Sherlock left the stones beside it, the coordinates perfectly visible. 

*****

Sherlock stopped the motorbike on the slope of the dune and rested it on the ground. He climbed to the top and lay down on it, looking at the wooden hut at the foot of the other side of the dune, when the sandy ground ended and the stony ground began. Sharp the coordinates provided by John.

With his heart pounding, he took out a viewfinder with a thermal camera designed for the desert from his rucksack and looked around the cabin. The image revealed two groups of people. Twenty seated, gathered in a circle, playing cards, judging by their movements with their right arm and their bodies' actions back and forth. On the right, another five sit or lay down in an uncomfortable position, distant to each other. He sighed, relieved when he recognized John's silhouette, alive, according to his body's warmth. His anger grew as he noticed the position of his arms. The pain in his shoulder should be unbearable. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, thinking. After a while, he opened them, took his rucksack, and turned back to the motorbike.

The special tires allowed an incredible grip on the sand, almost as if it were riding on asphalt. The detective lifted it with effort and slowly lowered the dune without starting it. Once down, he walked away, counting steps, and got on the motorbike, applying the mute to the engine and exhaust pipes, a device created by the army that silenced them completely. It would take some of the power away, but, according to his calculations, it would be enough.

The detective put on a pair of black boxing inner gloves and fitted the bandages around his wrists, then took a double back gun holsters from his backpack, buckled it to his chest, and loaded two automatic weapons onto it. He started up the motorcycle, twisted the throttle accelerating to the maximum, and headed for the dune. The motorbike climbed up effortlessly and flew out the sand. Sherlock jumped up, fell on the sand, and slide down the dune at full speed, his eyes fixed on the motorbike. Once he reached the rocky ground, he ran to the cabin. 

****

John laid on his left side, trying to find a position that prevented .further damage to his battered shoulder. It was not easy for him. The pain of the blows forced him to lie down in an uncomfortable, forced foreshortening. He rested his head on the ground but removed it immediately. The stroke from the barrel of the gun still hurt him. The man struck him so hard he instantly dropped out.

When he came to, soldiers were arguing sourly among themselves, now many more. Although they all spoke in Farsi, they did so with different accents. They weren't soldiers. They were mercenaries.

In the heat of the dispute, they repeated figures and letters with insistence. It took John a while to realize they were latitude and longitude coordinates, the only way to find anything in that fucking desert unless you were a nomad. Embroiled in an increasingly angry dispute, none of them realized he had regained consciousness. Groping and hardly moving, he looked for something to write on. He drew one coordinate on each stone. That way, if Sherlock found one, he would look for the other.

He had nothing to write on but his blood. So he tore the scabs from his lips and face and wrote with his finger, slowly, his body blocking what he was doing from the sight of men. Lying on top of his grave, almost motionless, his body was the perfect parapet.

He was sure Sherlock would find him. John knew no force in nature could stop him from coming to Afghanistan to rescue him, nor all of MI6 along with the entire NSY.

But he needed something to let Sherlock know that he wasn't buried there. Otherwise, if they found the graves and left them for dead, they would wait until they could repatriate the bodies. And by the time they realized the deception, it would be too late. His hand trembling, blocking the painful memories it brought to him, the doctor wrote Sherlock's initials on a third stone.

His anguish grew at the thought of Rosie. Today was the day she expected them to return home. She marked it in bright colors on the calendar in her room on the day they said goodbye. John gulped and his eyes filled with tears. He would never want to cause Sherlock and his daughter so much pain. He cursed himself again for falling into the trap, dragging others down, tearing Sherlock and Rosie apart... 

A hellish loud crash startled him. A large motorbike smashed through the roof, the engine on, wheels turning, dragging sand, wood, and dust in its wake, hitting the ground with a deafening bang as it crashed into it, trapping two mercenaries below.

Focused on rescuing their companions, none of them noticed the man who knocked down the door with a powerful kick. Screaming in anger, an automatic gun in each hand, he shot them with lethal precision. One by one, nineteen mercenaries' bodies hit the ground, dead before reaching it. 

Sherlock, all rage, fury, and adrenaline, took a few tenths of a second to realize he ran out of ammunition. He threw the guns down and ran into the cabin.

"Look out!" 

Bill's scream made him turn around in time to see a massive guy pouncing on him. The man knocked him with a mighty right, his fist smashing into Sherlock's face, throwing the detective against one of the hut walls, which he bumped into with a loud bang.

Sherlock grunted in pain, rolled over, stood, and shook his head to clear his mind from the blow, The guy waved his fists at him, waiting for him, smiling sadistically. A hundred and fifty kilos of pure muscle. The detective envisioned the man beating John, enjoying the pain he was inflicting, with a sadist smile. It wasn't the first time Sherlock saw it. His torturer in Serbia grinned in the same way.

But, this time, Sherlock wasn't chained to the wall.

He stood up and assumed a fighting stance, cautiously circling the man. The man threw a storm of punches, trying to reach the detective. Instead of counteracting them, Sherlock simply ducked or blocked the blows, trusting his fast catlike reflexes and taking his time to scan the man. Jaundice for a liver close to cirrhosis caused by excess alcohol. Oedematous wrists due to renal failure because of dehydration. Swollen knees for lack of cartilage due to overexertion…

Sherlock noticed the man's gazed fixed on his jaw. He will try to hit him there, accustomed to knocking down his opponents at the first blow, confident that his size and musculature would give him victory.

The detective moved his left leg forward, his right leg backward, clinging to the ground, his fists in a defensive position, waiting. The man, bewildered and out of patience, lashed out with another hard right that Sherlock blocked with his left forearm while flexing his legs, his right fist smashing the man's liver with all its force. The man grunted in pain and staggered backward, covering the area of the blow with his hand.

He advanced again towards Sherlock, his face contorted with fury and pain, sporting a cruel smile while throwing a sharp left hook that grazed Sherlock's face.

The detective smiled murderously. He only needed to blind the man a bit more with fury. Then, he would give back blow for blow all that he gave John.

Sherlock repositioned himself in combat martial stance, legs apart, knees slightly bent, the right elbow and forearm close to his body, the left arm placed slightly in front of the body. He smirked smugly and beckoned the man with his left hand, mockingly inviting the mercenary to hit him.

The enraged man yelled and jumped on him while Sherlock gave a short cry and launched a furious attack. Fists and feets striking the man from every angle a high speed, overcoming the man's brain, so he could merely block a couple of blows, the rest impacting his abdomen, jaw, kidneys, knees…,

The detective's face twisted with rage as he increased the speed of the strikes, until, with a hard spinning kick to the big man's temple, Sherlock managed to knock him down and stood there, panting, exhausted, his fists pointing at the man's inert body. When he was sure he was dead, he turned his head. His face softened instantly as he looked at the body lying at the bottom of the hut.

"John" he chocked, almost out of breath, running to kneel beside him. The doctor smiled weakly as Sherlock caressed his face with trembling hands, to be sure he was real, trying to comfort him.

"I'm here, love, it's over, I'm here," the detective mused, stroking his hair, tears rolling down his cheeks, trembling after days of anxiety and fear. "I thought I had lost you" he whispered, kissing John between sobs, his lips gently brushing each wound.

"I knew you were coming," John whispered, raising a hand to caress Sherlock's face, to make sure it was him and not a mirage.

Sherlock took his hand and gently kissed it, hurt to see John like that. He opened what remained of John's shirt. The anger bubbled inside him, looking at his painfully swollen shoulder and the steady arm.

"I will kill them all" he grunted, putting a bottle of water to John's lips, making him drink slowly.

"You already did," John mused faintly, drinking avidly. "I'm fine," he assured, trying to calm Sherlock down, to vanish his gesture of fury, rage, and despair that only came when someone dared to hurt John. 

Sherlock shook his head, going over the doctor's body, looking for more bruises and injuries. From time to time, John gritted his teeth and let out a groan, but the detective could not stop touching and hugging him, to make sure his brain was not fooling him, that he was alive.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, love" John stroked his bruised cheek "we have to get out of here," he urged.

The detective blinked. For a moment, he forgot everything, lost in the relief of finally finding him. He nodded, pulled a small cutter from his backpack, and moved to cut off Bill's handcuffs. He gave him another bottle of water, and they both went over to John. Sherlock released him and, while the detective feed the others and handed them water, Bill examined John's shoulder.

"Bill, I know perfectly well..." the doctor grunted, his voice strangled with pain.

Sherlock took the little cooler out of his backpack and opened it. He grabbed a syringe and a vial filled with a clear liquid. With an expert hand, he absorbed the contents of the jar and pulled it towards John.

"Don't give me morphine," grunted the doctor.

"John, fuck, you are dying of pain."

"I don't want morphine." he swallowed with difficulty. "I want to be clear."

"And you get surprised when Rosie is so stubborn!" grunted the detective. John, Bill, and the other three chuckled weakly. He took out another vial, shook it, and handed it to Bill, along with a new syringe. The nurse looked at the vial label, a mixture of anti-inflammatory and analgesic, and then at the detective, incredulous.

"Did you bring a shoulder infiltration?"

"Obviously." 

"Obviously?"

"John has an old shoulder injury. If I wanted to torture him, I would focus on it. Any blow would hurt him more than on healthy tissue," Sherlock explained.

"It's reassuring to know it," John scoffed.

"Captain, this is going to hurt."

"I don't think anything can hurt me much more."

Sherlock took his hand, which the doctor squeezed with all his strength when Bill pricked him on the shoulder and gradually emptied the syringe's content into it.

John breathed heavily with his teeth clenched. The pain was so intense he wanted to scream, but he didn't want to scare Sherlock anymore. The doctor knew the detective could take anything except that he suffered. He clenched his teeth until they almost felt like they were breaking until Bill pulled out the needle. Seconds later, the pain in his shoulder started to subside. He sighed with relief.

"Time to go," Bill announced.

At that moment, they heard the sound of several trucks approaching. Sherlock frowned.

"That's not Mycroft."

"Mycroft is here?"

They approached the window and looked at five trucks full of mercenaries speeding towards them.

****** 

"Sir," shouted the SAS sergeant, driving at full speed, forcing the occupants without seats to hold on as best they could so as not to be thrown back and forth inside the huge truck by the strong swaying and jumping, as it ran over the dunes.

The Captain approached and saw several trucks parked around a wooden cabin, which had a wide gap in one side of the roof.

"They are surrounding them!" he shouted, opening the truck door, letting dust and sand run into the cabin "Move, move, move!".

One after another, the SAS members jumped up, running across the sand and positioning themselves to find the best angle of fire. At the same time, mercenaries got out of the trucks and surrounded the cabin. 

The Sergeant braked hard, stopping on the dune slope.

"The two of you," Sholto bellowed to Mycroft and Lestrade, giving each an automatic gun, while the veterans took machine guns and assault rifles, "do not leave my side. The rest, move!"

The seven veterans, commanded by Sholto, also jumped up, and Mycroft and Lestrade went after them, spreading out over the dunes.

Several of the mercenaries pointed their guns at them. Others targeted the hut. 

The chief of the mercenaries jumped out of the truck and stepped forward.

"Nobody, shoot!" ordered the Captain.

"Either you put down your weapons, or my men will shoot at the cabin." the chief menaced.

"Shit!" Mycroft mumbled.

Sholto and the SAS captain looked at him, awaiting orders. 

"Even if we tried to shoot them down, we could still hurt them," warned the Captain. "Our bullets will go through the wood like butter."

"What shall we do?" asked Lestrade, realizing they were on a plank.

"Surrender the guns," sighed Mycroft.

"Don't you have an igloo?" intervened Mark, lying on the sand a few feet away from them, his gaze fixed on the rifle scope.

Mycroft and the SAS Captain stared at him, puzzled.

"How do you know about the igloo?" asked the Captain, to Sholto, Lestrade, and the homeless' perplexity.

"That doesn't matter now. Do you have it? Would it work?" repeated Mark.

"Yes, it can hold ten men," replied the Captain. 

"What is an igloo?" asked Lestrade.

"A portable shield," explained Mycroft, "secret military technology" he stressed the last syllables throwing an incendiary look at Mark, who didn't flinch.

"The problem is how to get it to them," the Captain observed.

"Will you show it to me?" Sholto asked.

"Time is running out!" threatened the mercenaries' chief.

The Captain held out to the Major an object consisting of a handle about a foot long attached to a small horizontal cylinder, which vaguely reminded Sholto of the cheese grater he had in the kitchen. He weighed it.

"Rob' he called, and the tallest of the homeless squatted up to him. "What do you think?" he asked, giving it to him. 

"This? It's a piece of cake," he replied. He took a bag out of one of his trouser pockets and put it in. He walked a few feet down the dune, out of sight of the mercenaries. He smoothed the sand at his feet and held the bag with both hands, waiting for the Major's signal.

Sholto smiled and put his hands to his mouth in the form of a horn.

"Do you know what I had for breakfast today? Bacon, cookies and avocado".

Mycroft, Lestrade, and the rest looked at him as if he had lost his mind, as did the mercenaries surrounding the hut. Judging by the silence inside the shed, those inside thought the same thing.

"Do you hear me?" Sholto repeated, "I had bacon, cookies, and avocado for breakfast." 

*****

At the hut, John, Bill, and Luke exchanged looks of understanding. Sherlock frowned.

"That's a caloric breakfast," John shouted, much to the detective's astonishment. The doctor regained his strength thanks to the infiltration, the water and two energy bars Sherlock gave to each of them.

"Not caloric. Very, very, very caloric".

"Very, very, very caloric," repeated Bill and looked up at the roof of, which would be about four meters above them. He twisted the gesture, looking at the rest of his companions. He pressed his lips "Impossible. None of us would make it".

John smiled and turned to Sherlock.

"He could"

"I can what?" he figured out it was some kind of password, but no what they were planning.

"Get in front of Bill," ordered John, pushing him to the left side of the cabin to walk to where the soldier moved. "When I give you the signal, jump as high as you can."

"And?"

"And let yourself go, sweetie," joked Bill, and the rest giggled, amused.

"John, what the hell...?"

"Do what he says, jump to your feet, and let yourself be done," ordered he in his Captain's voice, with a certain mocking leave.

Grumbling, the detective crunched in a half-squat between Luke and Bill, the first one standing in front of him and Bill behind him, both facing the detective.

"Come on, don't grumble, I'm sure it's not the first time you have a soldier stuck behind" Luke scoffed.

Sherlock blushed furiously, while John chuckled.

"Ready?" he asked.

They nodded, and John gestured at Bill.

"I wouldn't mind having that breakfast now!" yelled the nurse.

"Now!" John shouted in a whisper.

Sherlock, who remained crouched, pushed off and leaped in the air as high as he could at John's signal.

"Fuck!" he groaned when, in the air, Luke grabbed his legs above his knees as Bill placed his hands at the top of the back of his tights, both pushing him up so hard he could reach the ceiling. Something wrapped in a plastic bag crushed the wall, spinning on itself like a rugby ball and flew at full speed straight to the detective's hand. He caught it cleanly, and Bill and Luke lowered him to the ground. 

Sherlock took the object out of the bag and frowned. He gestured for them to surround him and nailed it to the floor with a sharp blow. From the handle, a transparent dome opened, visible only by the bluish hue of the glass that entirely covered them. Sherlock pressed a red button on the handle, which beeped and turned green.

*****

The SAS captain looked at the igloo monitor.

"Now!" he shouted when he saw the pilot change from red to green, a sign that it was assembled.

The veterans, Sholto, Mycroft, and Lestrade began to fire, the bodies of the mercenaries falling disorderly from the trucks and or beside them between cries. At the same time, the SAS ran through the dune and near the vehicles, parapetted in the undulations of the sand, firing, to prevent any of the mercenaries from escaping.

*******

"Hold your fire!" Sholto shouted.

The shooting stopped, and everyone looked up at the hut, holding their breath. There was no sound or movement. Mycroft bit his lower lip nervously. Igloo technology had never been tested before. What if it hadn't worked?

Suddenly, one of the walls, riddled with bullets, fell to the ground with a whimper. Through the dust cloud appeared Bill, helping Luke to walk, after them Jonas and Patrick. Finally, John leaning on Sherlock, limping ostensibly, his right arm resting against his chest. The five of them closed their eyes and covered them with their hands; the sunlight blinding and painful after the time locked the cabin.

Mycroft drowned out a sob and ran to them, followed by Lestrade, Sholto, the SAS members, and the homeless.

John looked at them in amazement and glanced at Sherlock, who just shrugged. Then the doctor's gaze fell on Mycroft, and his tired, aching gesture turned into infinite fury. The doctor broke loose from Sherlock and lunged at Mycroft, intending to punch him.

"You sent us into a mousetrap!" yelled.

"Wait, John, wait,' shouted Sherlock, standing between them, much to the doctor's annoyance and Mycroft and Lestrade's astonishment.

"Sherlock, get out of the way," hissed the doctor, behind whom the other four soldiers gathered.

"John, listen to me."

"He said get out of our way," growled Bill.

"John. You know I would love to see you breaking Mycroft's nose. But he was fooled. It all was all a trap, orchestrated to get to him."

The rest stared at him, surprised. The doctor hesitated for a few moments but dashed Mycroft, followed by his companions.

Sherlock dug himself into the ground. He did not want to hold John for fear of hurting his shoulder further. Mycroft stood behind him, knowing John was so infuriated with him for everything that happened that he would not hesitate to break his head. John inhaled depply and stopped his advance. He knew Sherlock would never defend his older brother if he hadn't a good reason to do it. 

"Go ahead. You have one minute. Then I'll erase his face."

Sherlock bit his lips to hold back the laughter.

"It was all a set-up to bring him down. Think about it. Why organize Mike's rescue and bring you here? To get me? They could have done that in London. I've been kidnapped there a lot of times. It would have been easier and faster. But they needed an incident with international repercussions that would leave Mycroft's hands tied at the same time. That's why Mike's reports came through unofficial channels. Somehow, they knew that, as soon as Mycroft received it, he would tell you that you would come looking for him. So they only needed to capture you and make you disappear. The scandal would blow up in his face. For organizing a covert operation, for endangering civilian's lives, for accepting information from uncertain sources as valid and poof, your position in the Government would blow up, brother". 

"But... but... to know that..." stammered Mycroft, relieved and at the same time fearing that Sherlock would finally discover the truth. 

"They need a mole." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "When you told him about the empty chair?"

John cast an angry look at the DI.

"You can hit him later. Where did you tell him?"

"We were at home" Lestrade glanced at John. "I'm sorry," he mouthed.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes. It was not what he expected. The logical answer to what Lestrade just said seemed impossible, but, as he well knew, as improbable as it might be, it had to be the truth. 

"Your house has been bugged, Mycroft. Once they overheard it, it was easy to come up with the plan, throw the hook, waiting for you to bite and for John to run to his rescue".

"Brilliant," murmured John, forgetting about Mycroft.

Sherlock smiled at him, delighted. 

"On the other hand, whoever did it, knows your methods well. That's why they didn't trick pictures. They created a different reality than it was."

The elder Holmes shook his head.

"Think, Mycroft," Sherlock's tone became slightly playful, although he could not hide a certain uneasiness "Who have you pissed off so much that he wants to get you out of the way? Contrary to what you told me in Sherrinford when we found the coffin, the list will be long." 

Mycroft blinked. He would have given anything to be able to tell him. Finally he breathed in, defeated.

"You're right," he admitted.

"Sir," interrupted the SAS sergeant, "these men need medical attention, get some food and drink and rest."

"And it would be good to get out of here," Sholto said. "I wouldn't be surprised if they sent more convoys. Served and eaten, we'll talk about it quietly".

John nodded. His shoulder was hurting again, and what Sherlock said made perfect sense. He nodded and let the detective help him into the truck, not without casting a glance at Mycroft, which made him shiver up and down.

This time, Mark got behind the wheel of the truck, driving him away as quickly as possible, while the SAS Captain, who was also a doctor, attended to John and the others.

"You will need time, physiotherapy, and rehabilitation," he said, helping John to wear a sling after examining his shoulder, dressing his wounds, and applying ointment to bruises. John could not hide a grimace of annoyance. He hated the sling, the idea of going through months of rehabilitation again, like when he was shot. Only been able to use one arm, depending on others for many tasks... 

"Rosie and I will help you," Sherlock reassured him. The detective stood beside them, watching like a hawk over the Captain's procedures. He knew how much the doctor hated the idea of being a burden and depend on others. "You can teach her how to cook."

John burst out laughing despite himself. He leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips. God, how he missed him...

Lestrade cleared his throat, and they both smiled without taking off their lips. Finally, they parted, sighing with resignation.

"There's something I don't understand." said Mycroft, trying to divert attention. He turned to Sholto "cookies, avocado..."

The Major, along with John and the other four, burst out laughing.

"No, no, no, Mycroft. Bacon, biscuit, avocado," he corrected him.

The others laughed again.

"When we were here in Afganistan, we played rugby on the base. We made up silly passwords so the other team wouldn't know what our play was going to be on the line out," John explained them, smiling at the memory. "Our coach hated them, saying we weren't serious, that it wasn't rugby, but we found it funny. And it turned out to be useful".

"Bacon, cookie, avocado" meant we would throw the ball hard, left, and to keep it," Bill explained.

"Oh, and very caloric is that the throw was very high," deduced Sherlock.

Bill put his hand on his shoulder.

"Congratulations, your first rugby lineout reception was a success. I thought you didn't understand anything about rugby," replied the nurse.

"John watches the games on TV," said the detective as if that explained everything. The doctor gave him a warm hug with his healthy arm.

"I think we could stop here," announced Jake.

He stopped the truck. Jake and Pete got out and extended a wide canopy next to it. Sitting on the sand, they arranged themselves in a circle, eating with appetite the cans of meatballs, meat ravioli, and canned meat Rob found in one of the many compartments of the vehicle. John, Bill, Luke, Patrick, and Jonas gobbled up at full speed. John even achieved to make Sherlock eat half a can of beef ravioli, ignoring his protests about being on a case.

Soon after, the Captain forced the five ex-prisoners to get into the truck to rest, while the others lay on the sand or explored the surroundings.

Mycroft lit a cigarette and strolled to where Sherlock sat, sulking. John forced him to get out of the truck because the detective didn't want to leave him alone. He let himself fall right next to him. His brother gazed at him and kept looking at the horizon. Without saying anything, Sherlock took his cigarette and took a deep puff.

"If John shows up, you are smoking," he said, the cigarette on his lips, squinting at the smoke.

"If Gregory does, it's yours."

"It's a deal."

Mycroft relaxed a bit. Sherlock accepted the peace pipe. He lowered his head and remained silent, hesitating. If he only could find a way to...

"I'm sorry for what I said, Myc," the detective's words took him by surprise, and even more so that he used the diminutive with which he called him when they were children "When we found the graves, I shouldn't have said that."

"I deserved it. All of this is my fault"

Sherlock watched him and shook his head. 

"No, I shouldn't have blamed you. You wanted to help John. In your own twisted, bossy way," Mycroft snorted, "but you wanted to help him overcome Mike's death, the nightmares and... you know." 

Mycroft took a handful of sand in his hand. He didn't want to remember that horrible night either. He kept on taking handfuls of sand, letting the grains fall slowly from his hands, stirring the sand.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Haven't you heard of desert spiders, as big as that huge head of yours?" the detective warned him.

Mycroft let out an undignified squeal and released the sand as if it burned until he heard Sherlock's giggles.

"You twat..."

They got silent, passing the cigarette to each other, lying on the dune, legs stretched out on the ground, relaxed for the first time in days.

"What are you doing here?" suddenly asked Sholto behind them.

"Admiring the views," answered Sherlock.

"Admiring the..." Sholto laughed.

John just came out of the truck and was chatting with Lestrade, both stripped to the waist, revealing their muscular torsos. The Major's laughter made them turn around. Greg frowned.

"Are you two smoking?"

"It's Sholto!" the brothers exclaimed at once.

"Sholto doesn't smoke."

"I didn't play rugby, either!" replied Sherlock.

Sholto chuckled, taking the cigarette that Sherlock sneaked to him. John and Lestrade approached them. The doctor bent down and kissed the detective's head.

"We could call Rosie," he suggested.

Sherlock nodded. They both got up and walked away a few yards, to sit in the shade of a small hill. Lestrade sat astride behind Mycroft and kissed him on the neck, watching them go away. Mycroft did not move.

"Are you okay?"

Mycroft shrugged.

"Sherlock is on the case. Everything will be all right," smiled Lestrade, kissing him again.

"Yes, but I don't know we are going to do it," replied Mycroft, worried.

"Well, you can always hide behind Sherlock," Lestrade scoffed.

"Hey!" Mycroft slapped him playfully, trying to hid how guilty he felt.

Lestrade laughed out loud.

"I wouldn't have left him."

"I hadn't seen you run to defend me when John wanted to hit me," replied Mycroft, a bit of disappointment in his voice.

"I trusted the sword in your umbrella," laughed Lestrade.

"Go to hell," Mycroft chuckled. He got serious. "You really wouldn't have let him?"

Lestrade moved in front of Mycroft and sat astride his legs, looking into his eyes.

"Never" kissed him gently. Mycroft kissed him back.

A few hundred yards away, sitting comfortably in the sand, John and Sherlock dialed Molly's number. They turned off the camera so that Rosie couldn't see John's bruised face, but they could see her.

"Hello, Molly," greeted the doctor when the pathologist picked up the phone.

The woman got speechless for a few seconds. She turned around, exhilarated.

"Rosie! Come here! "she shouted in a voice drowning in emotion.

They heard the girl trotting down the hall until she appeared in the camera. Molly gave her the phone.

"Hello, sweetheart," greeted John, swallowing the knot in his throat. All those days he was so afraid of not seeing her again... and now she was there in front of him. It seemed she had grown up in the week he hadn't seen her. He looked at Sherlock, who took his hand and squeezed it warmly.

The girl's face, until then serious, lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Daddy!!!, she shouted in excitement. She frowned, "Are you all right? I can't see you".

"The camera doesn't work," replied John. "But I'm fine. I'm sorry, I couldn't call you until now. I've had a lot of work".

"Are you okay?" his daughter asked again, with a touch of anxiety.

"Perfectly, and now that I see you, even better. Papa told you, I was working, right?" smiled John.

Rosie nodded vehemently.

"But he was worried. He wrinkled his nose while talking to me".

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John giggled.

"The student surpassed the teacher," he teased Sherlock, who was about to explode with pride and sulking at the same time.

"I was worried because Daddy was working too hard, Miss Know-It-All," replied Sherlock in a mocking offended tone, making Rosie laugh, amused and relieved.

"Are you behaving yourself? Or are you driving Aunt Molly crazy?" asked John.

"We're doing experiments."

"May God take us to confession _Et Tu_ , Molly?" joked the doctor.

The pathologist laughed.

"Nothing dangerous. I promise. Nothing explodes, chokes, or stinks."

"When you come to take me home?.

The detective and the doctor looked at each other. Sherlock panicked for a second, remembering the state he left Baker Street in. He hoped Mycroft's men were fixing it, although that meant they would fill it with surveillance bugs again.

"We don't know yet when our plane will leave," John replied. He preferred to recover a few days before the girl saw him. Sherlock nodded, holding back a sigh of relief.

"And we still have some things to finish. But, as you see, Daddy is all right".

The girl pondered for a few seconds, debating whether to get angry or to settle. In the end, she opted for the latter.

"Okay, but you have to call me every day," she said, pouting a bit.

They both smiled.

"Yes, Major Rosie," John replied.

She laughed and raised her hand to do the military salute.

"I miss you both," she said, her lower lip quivering a bit

"And we miss you, sweetheart," they answered in unison, their hearts shrunk.

"We will be home before you know it," promised Sherlock.

"A few more days and we'll be there with you" assured John. 

Sherlock lay down, letting his head rest on John's legs. The doctor chuckled and stroked his hair gently. Both with a bittersweet feeling, happy that their daughter was well and quiet, but feeling bad about lying.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

"She didn't buy it."

John frowned.

"Rosie was relieved to hear from you, but she knows perfectly we are hiding something."

"Your fault."

Both remained silent for a while. It was hard for the two of them. The false grave removed a lot of painful memories. John knew that guilt in Sherlock's eyes all too well. And he didn't want to go back to that.

The guilt ate away at both of them for too long. Sherlock, for Mary's death. John, by the image of the detective lying on the floor of Culverton Smith's morgue, flinching as John beat and kicked him with all his might, taking years of anger, pain, and frustration out on a lost, broke, drugged and unwilling to fight back Sherlock.

But if the Lord's paths are inscrutable, the nooks and crannies of fate are even more so. As John watched him make sure Sherlock didn't go back to the _sweeties_ , when the doctor heard Irene Adler's tone on the detective's phone, his stomach twisted. But if Sherlock remade his life with her, John wasn't going to get in the way.

"Just text her," he said, leaning close to Sherlock, "Phone her. Do something while there's still a chance, because that doesn't last forever. Trust me, Sherlock: it's gone before you know it. Before. You. Know. It" he ended, emphasizing each word. 

The detective glanced nervously at him. He left the cup on the coffee table and got up slowly. John felt even worse to see him hold back a wince when his ribs protested. He took a hesitant step towards him, with an indefinable expression on his face, his gaze a mix of determination and insecurity. John closed his eyes, ready to take the blow. Because Sherlock was going to punch him. He wished Sherlock would hit him with all his strength to get rid of the guilt he was carrying.

But instead, he felt his hands cupping his face and the gentle, tentative rubbing of the detective's lips on his own.

He tensed up. Sherlock stepped back, watching him cautiously. John felt like crying as he realized the detective was watching his fist out of the corner of his eye. 

Sherlock would never hit him. He would never knowingly hurt him. Hell, Sherlock was the one who had made him feel most alive, who gave up everything for him, who loved him as nobody did. With the same intensity that he loved him. 

John blinked as he heard those words in his head. It was the first time he had allowed himself to say it openly. Before, he had always drowned out the thought before formulating it. But somehow the soft, shy touch of Sherlock's lips broke down his defenses. 

He leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock closed his eyes and kissed him back. It was a wonderfully clumsy kiss, which showed the detective's inexperience. But all his lack of skill was made up for by his eagerness, running his hand behind John's neck, kissing him eagerly, overflowed with so many years of repressed desires, moaning softly, in a way that reminded John of a lost puppy that finally found home.

John licked Sherlock's lips. The detective, a bit baffled, opened his mouth, letting John's tongue invade his mouth, embracing each other, both tearful, damaged, broken, and finally, comforted.

John smiled at the memory of their first kiss. Probably the worst kiss on the list of the worst kisses in history. But, for the two of them, the most wonderful, perfect, and long-desired kiss, that erased the pain and guilt of the past, facing them towards a new future together.

"I'm sorry," John muttered, softly caressing the detective's broken lips. "I'm sorry, for what I've put you through, for being so selfish ..." he gestured to the phone, "I..." he shook his head, looking for words, "I fell into the trap like an idiot."

He knew if he had asked Sherlock, he would have left out a lot of things not to worry him. So, while resting on the truck, he convinced Lestrade to tell him everything that happened since they lost contact with him. The DI hesitated a bit at first, but he finally told him. The only thing he didn't share with John was the letters, which he hid in the bottom of his rucksack. 

Sherlock shook his head, looking fondly at him.

"Not like an idiot. Like the most generous man I know, like the Captain who leaves no one behind. As the bravest man, resolve of risking his own life not to endanger others`. As the most intelligent, guiding me to you. Like all that, you fell into the trap".

John smiled sadly, blushing a bit, grateful the detective wasn't mad at him.

"Besides, in a long time, you won't be able to tell me off when I go ahead alone to chase a criminal," retorted the detective.

"Ha, ha," mocked John, bending over to kiss him and shuffling his hair, "not in your wildest dreams."

"We will talk about my wildest dreams when we get home."

Sherlock put his hand on John's nape and lured him back in for another kiss, moving closer until as their lips brushed together, letting the doctor's tongue made way into his mouth, softly rubbing and playing with his. Sherlock moaned softly, and John deepened the kiss Sherlock lifted and sat on John's lap, both caressing each other, embracing each other, until they parted, panting

"Granted," he promised, smiling to himself, because of how wonderful were now Sherlock's kisses, and the guilt vanished from his eyes. But John wouldn't change that first kiss for anything. 

Both dozed, Sherlock cuddling up to John, the doctor enjoying his soft, relaxed breath until Lestrade went to get them to join the group.

"So it was all a trap," snarled Bill as they all gathered again, sitting comfortably in a circle, enjoying the evening's cool. 

"No, not everything," replied Sherlock. "I think... although it's only a possibility, and I don't want to give you any false hopes but... I think Mike might be alive".

They looked at him, gaping first and then smiling faintly. That would signify that everything they went through would not have been in vain. John shook his head, doubtfully.

"Are you sure?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"The pictures they sent of him weren't tricked. He wasn't double, and they weren't retouched. The place looked a lot like the first warehouse where the mercenaries locked you up. But Craig has not been able to define exactly what date they were taken. Maybe they were sent at the time and orchestrated the whole thing or decided it was time to use it to set up Mycroft. But, as I say, it's only a possibility".

"But... if it's true what you say, whoever discovered Mike is alive and held him captured is..." started John.

"It's the same guy who's trying to take out Mycroft. But, as I say, the pictures may be from long ago, "he looked at the five ex-soldiers. "I don't want you..." 

John, Bill, and the others nodded. Sherlock didn't want them to be hurt again. Although John didn't say anything, he deduced how hard it was for him to assume his death a second time.

Lestrade frowned.

"But how are we going to find out who he is?"

"We can't. we have to frame him."

"And how are we going to do that?" asked John.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

"Not we. All of you," he pointed to John and his friends, "will go back to London. You are not in a condition to…"

He didn't finish his sentence. John and the other four were shaking their heads in step, like a bunch of coordinated dancers.

"We haven't come this far to turn now. If there's a chance, however small and remote, that Mike is alive, we're in it." Decided John in a tone that, the detective knew well, meant that nothing could change his mind

"And we" assured the homeless in chorus with Lestrade and Mycroft.

"Count me in," added Sholto.

"We will not be able to accompany you," the Captain's tone and the faces of his men, reflected disappointment. "But, we can inform you of any abnormal movements in the area."

"Great. I appreciate that, Captain."

"How will we do that?"

How do you get a tarantula out of its hole?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled.

"By inserting a stick."

"But... it could be anyone in my office," said Mycroft. We have no way of finding out who it is." 

An intense terror began to invade him, thinking of the consequences if Sherlock was wrong. For a moment, he thought about saying it, about getting rid of that burden. But the risk was too considerable. 

"Oh, of course, we do."

Sherlock took his phone and started typing quickly, 

"The cipher papers," Mycroft realized.

Sherlock smiled and nodded.

"What cipher papers?" Sholto asked.

"The ones we found in Baker Street. But maybe she hasn't cracked them yet," Greg intervened, hesitant. "She said there were hard to decrypt."

"She lied," replied the detective.

Mycroft looked at him, pretending to be incredulous and baffled. He had to keep Sherlock from talking any further. 

"How long did it take her to decipher them?" he asked.

The detective bit his lower lip.

"No more than half an hour" he replied, amused. 

"Anthea lied to me? You made her disobey me?" Mycroft asked in an offended tone with a slight threatening tinge.

He inhaled sharply, stood, walked to the truck, and closed the door with a loud knock. 

Everyone looked at the door in silence for a few moments, surprised. Lestrade turned to Sherlock in disgust. 

"Have you made Anthea betray him?"

"No. He did it. He sits next to her every day in the car, without paying any attention to her. Anthea wanted to show you for a long time that she is good for fieldwork and that she is much more than an Ipad with legs. I simply gave her to do it."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Bill intervened. "let me get this straight. Before we came, you suspected it was a trap," Sherlock nodded, "when you came here, you didn't even know the target was your brother. Yet you arranged all this? That's impossible!"

John smiled. He knew well that feeling of bewilderment to Sherlock's brilliant mind.

"As I said many times, against popular belief, I am not clairvoyant. The target could have been John or me or Mycroft or perhaps someone else, but that was less plausible, given the effort to get John here. The sheets contained different instructions depending on who the target was".

"But what if Mycroft would have read the papers?" asked Lestrade, and the others nodded.

"My brother considers himself too smart to waste his time on a code created by his stupid little brother. "I bet he didn't even look at them before handing them to Anthea."

Lestrade, burst out laughing and nodded, remembering the scene at Baker Street.

"But, whoever arranged all this, also knows Anthea. Any confirmation coming from her will be suspicious. How are we going to get the stick in the hole?"

"We have the perfect bait for that," smiled Sherlock. 


	6. Solving Mycroft's puzzle

Sholto sat on the cot and breathed with delight. To enjoy the freshness of the desert night, they decided to take out beds and sleep around the truck, while one of them remained on guard. Although they moved quite far away from the mercenaries and were in an area they might consider almost safe, they should not let their guard down. 

The Major had been awake for a couple of hours, tossing and turning in the cot, so he decided to get up and go and keep Bill company. He strolled, enjoying the night's quietness after the anguish and uncertainty of the last forty-eight hours and discerned, besides Bill, Luke, Patrick and Jona's shapes. He sat down beside them and handed them a thermos with coffee. Sholto knew they needed time to process what they had just experienced.

"You can't sleep either?" 

They shook their heads. 

"It seems only the ones with a teddy bear can sleep tonight," replied the nurse, mockingly, in the direction of where John and Sherlock slept. 

"I hear that!" John retorted in the dark, making them giggle.

John and Sherlock were curled up in one of the cots. Plainly speaking, they fell asleep, John on his back looking for the best position not be disturbed by the sling, and Sherlock lying on his side, glued to the doctor, a protective arm over his chest, avoiding the areas sore from the blows, hugging him as if John were indeed an enormous teddy bear. The detective, exhausted, slept soundly, but John, from the discomfort of the sling and the nightmares, only managed to doze off at times.

"Come here, Three Continents," invited Sholto. 

"As if it were that easy," grunted him. He moved a millimeter away from the detective, who instinctively pressed himself even harder against John, muttering in his sleep, causing more muffled laughter among the ex-soldiers. Finally, the doctor achieved to free himself from the jumble of arms and legs without waking him up, got up, and sat down beside them. 

They remained silent for a few minutes, all sharing the same thought, but without any of them daring to formulate it. In the end, it was Luke who decided to do it. 

"How will he be? Will it stay the same?" 

That question about Mike floated in everyone's mind. None of their lives had been the same since they returned from Afghanistan. Not the five of them, not the homeless who accompanied Sherlock. Most of them still carried psychological scars. How did someone overcome ten years of captivity? How do you get back to being yourself? 

"We have to be prepared for everything. And give him time," muttered Sholto, sipping his coffee. 

The others nodded silently.

"Do you really think he could be alive?" whispered Jonas. 

"If Sherlock says the possibility exists, it exists," said John. "But we must not forget that it is only that, a chance." 

They hummed in agreement. They knew not to throw the balls in the air, nor to be carried away by enthusiasm. At the same time, they could not give up hope of having their friend alive again. 

"What is he up to?" asked Sholto, gesturing toward the sleeping Sherlock with his head. 

Before he could answer, they noticed Lestrade approaching them quietly. 

"Is there room in the army for an old officer?"

They nodded, smiling. John stepped aside to make room for him and offered him a coffee.

"How is Mycroft?" 

Lestrade rolled his eyes. 

"He has said nothing since he learned of Anthea's betrayal. He locked himself in the truck and won't come out. I suppose he is deciding whether to cut her head off or just whip her in the public square."

John snorted. 

"Do you think he will fire her?"

"He couldn't even if he wanted to. Anthea is still the only assistant who can keep up with his brain. Many worked for Mycroft before, and according to rumor, the ones who didn't go out crying left London to never come back. And she is the only Sherlock tolerates. But you know how bad it is for Mycroft not to control everything".

The doctor frowned, then smiled, scoffing. 

"Do you remember when you started going out?" he asked.

Greg chuckled. 

"When we started dating, Mycroft's men chased me everywhere, by car and on foot," he explained "he filled my apartment with microphones and cameras. I was walking down the street, and the CCTV cameras turned in my way to watch me. It was creepy," the others chuckled, "I think he even infiltrated people into NSY because several very experienced rookies appeared that none of us had ever seen before."

"Really?" Luke was amazed. "What did you do?" 

"First I tried to talk him out of it, then I negotiated, then I argued... until Sherlock advised me to threaten to leave him. Then everything magically disappeared, even the trainee agents." 

"You certainly can't complain because your boyfriend doesn't pay attention to you," Jonas joked, making them giggle again. 

Lestrade sighed. 

"I thought of him as a bossy busybody. It wasn't until now that I understood why he needed to control everything," he frowned, "he had a hard time with all this."

John inhaled hard, looked sideways at where Sherlock was sleeping, and tightened his lips.

"I know, John, but even he understood it," replied Lestrade in a tone that meant he did not want to go back to an old and repeated argument, knowing that the doctor was biting his tongue. 

"Sherlock understands too much about his brother." 

"Mycroft was waiting for the perfect moment," Lestrade countered. 

"Come on, Greg. Even Sherlock..." grunted the doctor. 

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips again. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. The wound caused by Mycroft was still open and kept hurting, making guilt and anger boiling over inside him.

Greg lowered his head and didn't say anything, regretful. It was all his fault. How could he have slipped out of his mouth like that? When John came into the bar, he had no intention of telling him anything. He just needed the company of a good friend to have a couple of drinks, criticize Mycroft and wait for the anger to dissipate to decide what to do. How could he have been such a big blabbermouth?

Sherlock, who woke up after noticing John's absence, sighed and cursed to himself, listening to them argue about the same for the umpteenth time. He turned to lie on his back, closed his eyes, and stapled his fingers under his chin. 

He entered his mental palace, retrieving Lestrade's inebriated call the night John went to keep the DI company while he stayed at home with Rosie. 

"John is going to Mycroft's," Lestrade warned with a smeary tongue.

The DI's tone alarmed him. He sounded angry, worried, sorry, and scared. 

"Why?"

"I... Mycroft... in Serbia. I said..., I shouldn't...."

The detective hung up and dialed his brother's number. He preferred to text, but he didn't have time to waste. Getting no reply, he sent a message, took off his robe, put on his coat and shoes, left Rosie at Mrs. Hudson's, and went out in search of a taxi, mumbling to his brother and Lestrade, dialing John's and Mycroft's number alternately, getting no reply from either of them, 

Ever since John returned to Baker Street after Mary's death, Sherlock had been careful not to let him see the scars on his back, to avoid having to tell him about Serbia. But when both of them admitted their feelings, he knew he could not hide them anymore. He didn¡t want his first time having sex with John to be marked by them. So he told John briefly how he was captured, the days of torture, and how Mycroft rescued him, leaving out all the details that would make it even more painful for the doctor.

But Mycroft's loudmouth couldn't stop telling Lestrade all the rescue details. Sherlock wasn't surprised. He knew that his enormous ego was pleased with the idea of having rescued his brother, thus proving once again his superiority over him.

What he didn't understand was why Mycroft told Lestrade he enjoyed watching his brother being hit with a pipe, comfortably sitting with his legs on the table. Sherlock knew better. His older brother was a conceited pedant, and he sometimes could be a bit twisted with him, but he wasn't the sadist animal that Mycroft pictured while talking with his boyfriend. 

Lestrade, who initially thought it was a bad joke, got livid when he realized Mycroft meant it. Enraged and disbelieving, he left Mycroft's house after a massive argument, intending never to meet that insensitive sadist again. 

Mycroft, worried, asked John to go and check on him. After several hours and as many pints, he told the doctor what upset him so much. 

"The bastard enjoyed it, John, he admitted it" he mumbled, slurring his words, perhaps too much for the amount of alcohol he had taken. "Sitting with his feet on the table, watching his brother being tortured. He only lacked the popcorns". 

That ignited John, who rushed off to Mycroft's house, while Lestrade stood at the bar watching the doctor's angriest version he ever saw walk out the door. Strange, too, that he hadn't tried to stop him, Sherlock thought. 

"Doctor Watson, believe it or not, I have a doorbell." Mycroft smiled forcibly as he opened the door after several minutes of listening to John pounding on it and threatening if he didn't open it. 

"You were there, watching everything," hissed the doctor, "and you didn't move a finger." 

"I don't know what my dear brother told you. I was waiting for the perfect moment," although Mycroft's tone was defiant, he took a couple of steps back. He felt intimidated by John, by his clenched fists, sparkling eyes, the gesture of utter contempt, and that mute promise that he would soon throw himself into his jugular. His anger was so massive it was palpable.

"The perfect time? For what?" John took a couple more steps forward, and Mycroft backed off for a few more. He gestured to the two members of the security forces not to intervene. 

"To rescue him, idiot," retorted Mycroft, not looking away from John's fist, which, almost in slow motion, was backing away to break his nose. "But if there is anyone who has no right to ask me for explanations, it is you, Doctor. Watson". 

John held his fist inches from Mycroft's face. He knew he was trying to entangle him, but something in his tone let him know that what was coming next was not going to please him. 

"What do you mean?" he asked, ignoring the constant buzzing of his cell phone. 

"You are a doctor," Mycroft took his mobile out of his inner jacket pocket, which kept vibrating with messages and calls from Sherlock and switched if off "You saw his back. His back, Doctor Watson. Doesn't it remind you of anything?"

John narrowed his eyes. 

"Stop playing games".

"The night at the restaurant, when you tackled my brother by throwing him on his back to the ground. An enviable style, by the way. You must have been a star at the University. But when he fell backward, many of his wounds reopened. It was excruciating, and he lost a lot of blood once again. I may have been sitting there while he was beaten, but it was you who tortured him again. And not just physically". 

John closed his eyes, shaking his head, feeling the bile's taste rising from his stomach, guilt, remorse, and disbelief drowning out the rage. 

"You are lying," he muttered, dropping his hands. 

"You know I'm not." 

John lowered his head. Mycroft was right. He knew better. 

Sherlock's brother tilted his head, smirking. 

"I think your visit is over, Doctor Watson. Now, if you excuse me, I have truly important business to attend to". 

John didn't say anything before turning around and lost himself in the night, ignoring the cell phone that kept vibrating in his pocket. Sherlock didn't catch the reason for that gratuitous cruelty. John shouldn't have known it, and Mycroft knew it would destroy him. 

"He wanted to hit me" was the only explanation he got from a jaded Mycroft. "He had no right to ask me for explanations." 

"We were over it. It was hard for both of us to get over it, but we made it, and you came along and ruined everything. Fix this, Mycroft," growled Sherlock. "I don't care how, but fix it." 

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to push away the memory of John's agonizing search all over London that stormy night. The doctor, corroded with guilt and memories, neither returned to Baker Street nor answered his calls. With Lestrade in the pub out of action and Mycroft locked in sullen sulking, the desperate detective could only turn to one person apart from his homeless network to find him as soon as possible. John was in danger, wandering the streets of London alone at night. 

"Come on," Donovan grumbled, opening the door at two in the morning and finding a soaked Sherlock on the other side, "Now you're going to come and pester me at my house too? 

"I can't find John" was his only response. 

Donovan watched him, surprised and upset. The always haughty and dismissive detective looked like a scared little boy. The fact that he came to her, contrite and humiliated, made her feel something she never thought she would feel for the freak. Empathy. And a certain admiration. Holmes was a cretin, but he'd go through anything as long as nothing happened to John, including reaching out to her. He really cared for the doctor 

"Greg would never do that," replied the sergeant when Sherlock succinctly told her what happened, as they both ran around the docks, looking for John. "He has enough tolerance for alcohol to last for hours without spilling his guts, and he's no snitch." 

"I know. And he would never hurt John for free. I just don't get what happened to him." 

It wasn't until nine o'clock the next morning when they found him on one of the benches at Victoria Train Station, his eyes fixed on one of the platforms. Donovan walked away then, leaving them sitting on the bench, giving them space and time to talk and pull themselves together. 

Two weeks later, Mycroft called John to apologize and handed him Mike's file. 

He snapped his eyes open. The puzzle finally took shape in his head. Everything fitted together perfectly. And, for once, he wished he was wrong. 

John and Lestrade fell silent, watching him approach them. They knew this was a sensitive subject for the detective. 

"Lestrade, the night you..., the night you told John about... Serbia, were you in the usual pub?"

Both nodded. 

"Where were we going to go? It's where...

"I don't care about your alcohol rankings," snapped Sherlock. "Everything was the same? The pub, the beer, the..." he snapped his fingers "what's the name of that annoying bartender who keeps trying to get me drunk?"

"Oliver. Yes, everything was the same."

"No, Greg. Oliver left about two hours after we arrived. He had finished his shift." 

Lestrade shrugged and looked at John, doubtful. 

"Are you sure? I was already so drunk that I didn't notice and..."

He fell silent as Sherlock turned on his heels and stride forward to the truck. He opened the door and walked in, closing it slowly behind him. 

"It took you longer than I thought to put all the pieces together, little brother. You're getting older,' whispered Mycroft, teasingly, but Sherlock didn't miss the note of deep sadness in his voice. 

He was sitting in the semi-darkness of the truck, fully clothed, turning the umbrella between his fingers. Sherlock clenched his fists, angry, sad, and bewildered. 

"Mycroft, don't play with me. Even you, with that vast intelligence you boast about, can't imagine how angry I am. I need this to break your head." 

There followed a tense silence between the two of them, interrupted only by the random tapping of Mycroft's umbrella on the floor.

"And why don't you do that?" he asked in a smug tone, not stopping to fiddle with his umbrella. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, focusing his attention on it for a few moments to look back at his brother. 

"Why, Mycroft?"

"Why? What do you think? I thought you figured it out by now. But you always miss something. Money and power, little brother". 

Sherlock blinked a couple of times. 

"Did you sell John for money?" he hissed, angry and hurt. "Do you know how long it will take him to regain the mobility of his shoulder? How long will it take him to recover psychologically?" his voice broke at the last word. 

Mycroft rose slowly, drumming with his umbrella on the floor, and began to move towards the door. Sherlock watched him from a distance, not coming closer as if he were observing a dangerous animal.

"Not money. Money alone is meaningless. Money and power, one is not interesting without the other. And no, I didn't sell him. I used him as what your dear doctor is, however much it burdens you: a simple and expendable pawn." 

With a shout of fury, Sherlock lunged at Mycroft, pushing both of them into the door.

John, Lestrade, and the rest jumped to their feet when the truck's door slammed open, and the two brothers fell to the ground in a fight, insulting and growling to each other, Sherlock trying to hit Mycroft and Mycroft fighting to get away from his brother. 

"What the hell?" cried Lestrade, taking a step forward. 

"Stay out of this!" roared Mycroft.

"This is between Mycroft and me!" barked Sherlock, connecting a stiff right hand to Mycroft's left cheekbone.

He shouted in a rage, and, picking up momentum, turned them both over, so that he straddled Sherlock and responded with another punch. The detective grabbed his arms, quickly immobilized him, turned his body with force, and rolled them both over Mycroft. 

"Leave them, Greg, this had to happen sooner or later,' sighed John, watching the brothers, clinging to each other, rolling around the truck, hitting and threatening each other, until they disappeared behind it. Lestrade nodded. John was right. That had to explode somehow.

"Mrs. Hudson was right; you are a reptile," snarled Sherlock, panting, sitting astride his brother again. 

"And yet I'm faster than you," grunted Mycroft.

He let out a gasping grunt as a new punch hit him on the cheekbone.

"That's the best you can do?" he winced, trying to get away from the detective who managed to pin him down. "You hit like a little girl."

Sherlock's strong punch got a cracking sound and broke Mycroft's left cheekbone's skin, leaving him dazed and dizzy. The detective stopped, panting and waiting, observing him. After a couple of minutes gasping, Mycroft took out a small case from his jacket pocket and brought it to Sherlock with a shaking hand. 

"You always said you didn't need any more power, that your minor position was enough for you," Sherlock reproached him, opening the case and checking its contents.

He frowned and looked at his brother, who nodded vigorously. 

"I found that you can never have enough. It's... like a drug. What am I going to tell you that you don't know, little brother? As soon as it's over, you always want more. Being an addict, you know what I mean." 

Sherlock pressed his lips together and, without responding, sprayed the wound on his cheekbone with a small anesthetic spray that took from the case. Mycroft clenched his teeth, holding a hiss. 

"I never sold anyone out for drugs." 

"Selling is a repulsive word. I prefer transaction or exchange."

He nodded and breathed hard, clenching his teeth as Sherlock lit a small flashlight and held it between his teeth. Then he took a little scalpel and tweezers out of the case and sprayed them both with a sterilizing solution of another small bottle. 

"You can call it what you like, but it's still disgusting, just like you," snarled the detective, carefully probing the area around the wound and looking at his brother". 

"At least I don't think it's Christmas every time someone is murdered," retorted Mycroft, nodding. 

The detective made a small incision to widen the open wound on his brother's cheekbone. Then he dug into it with the tweezers, while Mycroft clenched his teeth for the mixture of pain and cringe. 

Sherlock kept digging until he pulled out a small capsule, the size of a grail of rice, and wiped it off with his sleeve. The translucid glass capsule cracked from the blows, and inside it was visible a tiny elongated microchip with a small antenna of very thin copper wire wound around. He took his magnifying glass and observed it in the light of the flashlight while Mycroft, visibly relieved, dropped his head to the ground, eyes closed, ignoring his bleeding cheekbone. 

Sherlock got up and entered the truck through one of the windows, being careful not to be seen by the others. When he returned, he looked again into Mycroft's case and pulled out a stitch and a needle. 

"Are you sure you know how to do that?" he asked in a voiceover. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and began to stitch up the wound with a firm pulse.

"Speak out," he ordered, concentrated on the thread and needle. 

"Three and a half months ago, when I took my car to go back home from work, I noticed my driver was not Andrew. I didn't give it a second thought. As I told you before, there had been some glitches in the emails and communications, delays… New staff came in, and I made the mistake of assuming Anthea forgot to warn me. It was late, almost two o'clock in the morning, and I was longing to arrive home and be with Gregory. At a traffic light, the driver stopped the car and unlocked the doors. Four blokes got on, immobilized me, and injected me something with a syringe. They warned me: if I tried to remove it, Gregory would not make it out of the next case alive. Before going out from the car, one of them said I should wait for instructions and follow them to the letter". 

"And you believed them? It's not the first time Lestrade has been threatened." 

For all answer, Mycroft pulled out his cell phone. He searched for a file and opened several photos to Sherlock. They showed Lestrade with Donovan and Anderson at various crime scenes. 

"They were always taken before you arrived. They were afraid you could realize they were watching him. I got scared, I didn't know what to do, what they wanted, so..."

"It could have been just a bluster." 

Mycroft shook his head. 

"I thought so, too, but... Do you remember Joy?" Sherlock shook his head, pulling the string, making Mycroft hissed "it's Anthea's assistant. It was, rather. Two days after I was inoculated, I tried to open my cheekbone and remove whatever they put there. While I was doing it, I got a call saying his car just exploded with him inside. Gregory would be next."

Sherlock stopped before giving the next stitch.

"That is why you behaved like a sadistic prick." 

"I couldn't warn you, but I could make all of you stay away from me. Gregory let it slip that you told John about Serbia".

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, and Mycroft mumbled,

"Yeah, they're like two schoolgirls. They tell each other everything," he gritted his teeth at the new prick of the needle. "That gave me the idea. Gregory has a great sense of ethics, and he cares for you very much. I knew that lie would make him rethink our relationship and leave me. That's why I told him that bullshit about how I enjoyed watching how you got beaten up in Serbia. I knew it would turn his stomach". 

"This is why you called John." 

"I needed to get away from not only him, but from you as well. I called John, told him we argued, that I was worried about Gregory... you know your husband. He didn't hesitate to go out looking for him". 

"But Lestrade would never have told him." 

"No, that's why I asked the substitute bartender to put a scopolamine derivative in his drink. It doesn't give you a hangover and makes you confess all that happened in the twenty-four hours before taking it. That made Gregory sing like a bird". 

"You hurt him. A lot. And John too," Sherlock bemoaned with a quiet voice, bending over to cut the suture with his teeth. 

"I know, but I had no choice. I knew that hurting John would take you away from me, as it did." He looked away. "But, somehow, they realized the ploy. Two days later, Gregory was shot while chasing that jewel thief, remember?"

Sherlock nodded mortified. He hadn't accompanied Lestrade because the case was not beyond one. Lestrade spent a fortnight in hospital, and Mycroft didn't leave his bed for a second, after which they made up. 

"Another couple of inches and he'd be dead. I understood the warning perfectly." 

Sherlock squinted. 

"That is why you didn't let me look into it." 

"It wouldn't have taken you long to realize the bullet didn't come from the thief's gun, and all would have been revealed. With Anderson on the case, changing the evidence was a child's play. You, as usual, though I was a bossy prick and let it slide". 

Sherlock chuckled sadly. That was precisely what he thought when he tried to find out who shot Lestrade and met with his brother's outright opposition, blocking all attempts to locate the shooter. 

"A month or so passed, with no news of them. Then they told me I had to get you away from London and sent me Mike's file."

"And you decided that sacrificing John was a small price to pay." 

Mycroft shook his head. 

"I refused to do it. And I never would have done it if I hadn't received this." 

He looked on his phone again and showed it to Sherlock. The detective opened his eyes, terrified. In the photos, Rosie appeared holding Molly's or Mrs. Hudson's hand, being picked up from school or taken to the park. Sherlock swallowed hard, barely able to breathe. They were taken less than three feet away from her. Whoever did it could have grabbed Rosie with a single stretch of the arm. His fear grew when the photos showed the inside of Baker Street living room, with Rosie watching TV on the sofa, or having breakfast with them. 

"They hacked into your surveillance system, threatened Rosie, and you didn't warn me?" he hissed in a husky voice, trembling with rage and fear, grabbing Mycroft by his jacket flaps and shaking him with fury. "They were tracking our daughter, and you didn't inform me?"

"I was going to do it, I swear! All were getting out of hand. But just as I was to tell you, I got this." 

It was a three-picture montage. One of them showed Sherlock in Serbia's cell, naked from the waist up and his arms chained to opposite walls of the small room. He was slumped forward, exhausted, and unable to support his own weight, his back covered by wounds from the repeated blows. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, blocking the flood of painful and scaring memories that that image unleashed in him. But what shrunk his stomach was the next picture, which showed a smiling Rosie, riding on the park swing. The third photo was a montage of both, in which they had removed Sherlock's image and replaced it with Rosie's, accompanied by a " _Picture her there_ " written in black on a white background. 

Sherlock dropped the phone and was able to move away just a couple of steps before he vomited, terrified. Mycroft slowly got up and went over to him, hesitating to put his hand on his back. In between gagging, the detective's body shook violently. 

"It's... it's a four years old girl, damn it," he said in a shocked sob when he could speak. He wiped his mouth and looked up at his brother, trembling with fear and anger. "She is all alone in London. They threatened her, and you made us leave her alone in London," he hissed, horrified.

He would have wanted to scream, but he wasn't able to. His lungs hadn't enough air to do it, and he didn't want John to hear them.

"Can you imagine what will happen to Rosie if they...?"

He couldn't finish his sentence. He put his hands on his head, panicking, imagining Rosie, alone and frightened, in the darkness and solitude of the Serbian cell. 

"They promised they wouldn't hurt her if I brought you here." 

"And you believed them?" Sherlock looked at him with his eyes filled with tears. "Fuck, Mycroft! It's Serbia! She's four years old, and she is in London, alone and defenseless! Don't you realize you've done just what they intended? How could you be so stupid?"

"She is safe," repeated Mycroft, stubborn, his lower lip trembling, speaking almost to himself, as if he realized at that moment that he indeed put her in danger and left her defenseless. "They won't do anything to her. They promised me, they promised me," he repeated, lowering his head, "I was terrified. I had... no way to protect her. I didn't know who was on my side and who wasn't..." 

Sherlock glared him and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He had to calm down. He couldn't panic. He should protect Rosie. 

"Think, think," he muttered. 

He pulled out his mobile phone, his hands trembling so hard he could barely type. Realizing this, Mycroft looked at him affectionately, seeing again in his brother that seven-year-old boy with curly brown hair, desperately trying to overcome the situation. 

"Go on, give it to me," he ordered fondly, taking the phone away from him. He frowned at the message Sherlock was trying to send. 

"This doesn't make any sense." 

"Change one comma, and I swear I'll drop John to chase you across the desert." 

Mycroft looked at him, puzzled, and seconds later, the two brothers burst into hysterical laughter. Mycroft shook his head and sent the message, while Sherlock wiped away the tears of fear that rolled down his cheeks.

When he finished, Mycroft looked at his brother, opened his mouth as if to ask a question, and closed it again. 

"What do you intend to do?" asked him finally.

"What do you think? Get Rosie to a safe place". 

"There's nowhere she's safe. They control everything. Absolutely everything, everyone, everywhere. This is why I let Rosie stay with Molly". 

"How could you do that? How could you trust them?" Sherlock asked again, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Because if I hadn't, I would have gone crazy. They were watching me all the time. So I could only trust their word," he rubbed his eyes, exhausted.

His voice cracked and remained silent for a few minutes, trying to pull himself together.

"I've never been so scared in my life. The thought of Rosie being in danger, the possibility of her being harmed, or kidnapped or…" he cut himself, realizing he was alarming Sherlock even more. "It twisted something inside of me. So when they sent me Mike's file again and told me I had to get you both out of London, I didn't hesitate. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. At the time, I didn't realize Rosie would be... alone".

"Why didn't you give it to me first?" he asked in a quiet voice.

He understood Mycroft. He was terrified with the idea of Rosie being hurt. 

"Because you... you would do what you did. Realize something wasn't right. And you wouldn't have let me show it to John..."

Mycroft lowered his head, ashamed.

"I knew the only possibility was that John would accept the mission first. You'd go after him without thinking."

"You made him think you wanted to make up for telling him about the restaurant. You knew that John felt so bad about it that he would do anything to redeem himself. Saving Mike, he would redeem himself in both my and in his eyes. That's why he accepted it almost blindly, giving it all up, turning a deaf ear to my warnings". 

Mycroft nodded. 

"John, unlike us, still believes in the human race's' innate goodness, with all his trust issues. He thought Gregory mediated... I've never been so disgusted with myself, as when I saw his face reading the file. I truly was sorry for have hurt him like that, and he could read it". 

"You manipulated him." 

"I had no other choice."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know." 

"Doesn't matter. They're dead. What do they want?"

"I don't know either, apart from the obvious, which is you to stay out of London." 

"Do you think they might be an old Moriarty's faction reactivated?"

"I doubt it because you took care of Moriarty's network thoroughly, but..., it's clear they are somehow related to Serbia. Whoever it is, they are well organized, informed, and have the latest technologies at their disposal "he pointed out the cheekbone" And, as you said before, they know my methods too well. I haven't stopped breaking my head thinking about who they could be, but I don't know".

"Someone infiltrated right under your nose." 

Mycroft nodded. 

"That's why you didn't come shouting in a rage when I smashed the surveillance system on Baker Street," realized Sherlock. 

"I have never felt so relieved watching you destroy my cameras," he admitted, smiling sadly. "When I saw them going black one by one... I almost danced. You blinded them." 

Sherlock shook his head. He looked at him with a mixture of fierceness and sadness. 

"Why didn't you let me come sooner? Why did you force me to put on this circus?"

Mycroft's face turned into a pout, and, for a few seconds, he looked like he was going to cry. He managed to pull himself together quickly.

"The day before going to Afghanistan, John asked Gregory and me to stop you to go looking for him in case anything happened to him. When John disappeared...,. If I suddenly chartered a plane here, Gregory would have realized something was wrong, and he and Rosie would be in danger. And I was afraid of what they would do to you if they caught you. They assured me that John and Rosie would not be harmed, but they said nothing about you". 

He remained silent for a while. He then talked in a whisper. 

"When they found out you weren't going with John, they agreed to hold them until you arrived, and then they would just wait."

He rubbed his forehead and smiled sadly.

"You say you always miss something. So do I. When I planned all this, I missed one thing: John would protect you at any cost, even in exchange for his life. I tried to convince him to take you, but he refused outright... and that tore everything apart. I missed how much he loves you". 

Sherlock smiled fondly. 

"Why do they want to take me away from London?"

"I don't know?"

"Mike is alive?"

"I think so; I don't know either." 

"What are they going to do now?"

"I don't know either. Everything I said before is true. I don't know who they are or why they are planning to do. My part was only to trick you into getting far away from London. I swear that's all. I only wanted to protect Rosie," he muttered, desperate, his eyes filled with tears. 

"I know it." 

Mycroft felt relieved, knowing his brother understood him. 

"I didn't enjoy it." 

Sherlock looked at him, frowning, lost. 

"In Serbia, I didn't enjoy it. It was hard for me to be there, watching him hit you. I would have made him swallow the pipe and then killed him. But I couldn't do it. It would have alerted the others". 

"I know. I accused you because I was angry. That bastard was working his ass off with the fucking pipe. You are insensitive and arrogant, but not a sadist". 

"Idiot" he retorted, warmly.

He lowered his head again. 

"Are you going to tell John?"

The detective shook his head. 

"Not until Rosie is safe, and he recovers physically and psychologically a bit," he checked his watch. "It's nearly half past midnight in London".

His mobile vibrated, and he typed quickly in response to the message. 

"As soon as they realize you removed the implant, they will go for her. So we have to keep on with the plan without telling anyone". 

"Where are you taking her?"

"The one place no one would look for her," he shook his head as he finished writing another message and pressed the send key.

He looked at his brother, fiercely.

"I don't care who they are. I will kill them. For Rosie and John," he said, anger boiling in his eyes, his stomach shrinking with fear. 

Mycroft lowered his head. 

"I am truly sorry. I never meant to put her in danger. I didn't know they will torture John. That wasn't the plan. They just wanted to keep you away from London. They told me no one would hurt John; they'd just be captured but... someone got nervous and forced their hand." 

Sherlock didn't answer, trying to control the distress. If they had broken their word to John, they could do the same to Rosie. He could only pray that the ploy to get her to safety would work on time.

"John heard them say they were running out of time. Does that remind you of anything?"

Mycroft shook his head. 

Sherlock stood up and reached out to his brother.

"We have to go back." 

Mycroft bit his lower lip. 

"They heard I was the target," lamented Mycroft on a guilty note. He smiled sadly, "Do you think it would affect your plan?". 

Sherlock rolled up his eyes and nibbled at his lower lip in thought. 

"I don't think they will relate it to what I have in mind. It may even benefit us".

"How? Oh, Anthea. I won't even be able to tell her off, will I?"

"I'm afraid not," he pulled out his phone and typed quickly, using the same symbols as on the papers they'd found in Baker Street. 

"What if they intercept it?" he asked, worried, "It's obviously a code". 

"If they intercept it, they will think I'm a bastard who is cheating on my husband with my brother's secretary. That's what they would decipher if they read it literally." 

"There's another code, then." 

Sherlock nodded and smiled naughtily.

"A book called _I hate my big brother_. Believe it or not, it exists. Each word is accompanied by a page number, line number, and word number. I hid it in Anthea's house while she was at work, and told her where to find it in the papers you found."

"That is what you read while you were tearing up Baker Street?" grunted Mycroft. 

"A very uplifting read. And useful," joked Sherlock. 

"Which I guess you enjoyed memorizing".

"You can't imagine how much".

Mycroft scowled. Then he smiled. He was relieved Sherlock kept teasing him as usual, though in a much softer tone than he used to employ in those verbal battles. 

"Since when did you get on so well with Anthea?"

"Since talking to her means not talking to you." 

"You're insufferable." 

"Look who is talking" replied Sherlock, a fond note in his voice that made Mycroft smile. 

"What about the implant?" 

"From what I have seen, it has a temperature sensor. I put it in the microwave. For now, they will think it's broken with the blows, but still in your body." 

"In the microwave? What are you going to do? Defrost it?"

"I don't see many more Faraday's cages around here. And it will give us a little time to get Rosie into safety." 

"And reattach it?"

Sherlock shook his head. 

"The capsule is broken. The components could leak into your blood, and you could be poisoned. That's why they put it on your cheekbone. Usually, these implants are put in places where there is little blood supply, but you could have removed it easily. The cheekbone allowed them full control over the implant. Besides, the lack of information will get them nervous and give us an advantage. So far, they have been very confident because they had everything under control. Let's see how they react now they don't". 

Mycroft looked at his brother. 

"Thank you, Sherlock." 

"Thank you for protecting Rosie. It must have been hard for you." 

His brother nodded, took Sherlock's hand, and the detective lifted him effortlessly. He brought his hand to his cheekbone. 

"You didn't hit that hard when you were a kid." 

"I was seven, Mycroft. Although I am sure John gave a great spanking at that age."

"I was scared to death when he showed up at my house the night of the pub. I thought he was going to break me in two". 

They both chuckled, trying to keep the panic away with silly jokes, as they walked back to the group formed by John, Lestrade, Sholto, and John's men, who had been joined by the homeless. 

"Have you calmed down yet? You're lucky we're in the desert. Otherwise, we would have watered you with cold water, like angry dogs," snarled John, watching them alternately. 

"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked, checking Mycroft's face. He turned to the detective. "What have you done to him?"

"Give him his due, nothing else." 

"Give it up Gregory; I deserved it. Next time I will be faster than you. And now everybody goes to sleep," he ordered, angry, "tomorrow we have a busy day ahead of us." 

Without further ado, Mycroft made his way to the truck and Sherlock to his cot. The others looked at each other, puzzled.

"What are they up to?" asked Lestrade. 

"I don't know, but Mycroft's wound is not only from a punch. It is a surgical incision. Sherlock stitched it up. I know his stitches." 

"John, are you coming?" Sherlock's voice was heard in the darkness.

The doctor nodded and approached him, while the others spread out on their cots. They both lay down, and Sherlock hugged him, plunging his face into John's neck. Worried, he noticed the detective was shaking. He put his good arm around him to instill confidence.

"Are you going to tell me what is going on?" he whispered affectionately, stroking his husband's hair, trying to comfort him "No secrets between us, remember?" 

Sherlock nodded. 

"I will, I promise," he replied in a muffled voice, unable to look at him, his face still sunken in John's neck, breathing in that scent that always soothed him. "I just need a little more time. You just worry about getting well, okay?"

"Okay,"

John kissed Sherlock's head, noting how he huddled even more against him without letting go of his phone. After a few minutes, the detective's breathing became regular, but John knew that he was only pretending to sleep. He kissed his hair and sighed, worried, wondering what had frightened him so much. 


	7. Anthea's squad

Molly froze when the intercom buzzed. A little over half an hour earlier, after receiving a text from Sherlock, she set everything as quickly as possible. But not fast enough. They were already there. She gulped audibly, staring anxiously at the dog carrier, looking for a place to hide it, but there was none in her flat. 

The intercom rang again. She remained silent, paralyzed by fear. If they thought no one was home, perhaps they leave. No, it was stupid. They surely knew she was there with Rosie. With a trembling hand, she picked up the receiver. 

"Cab for Molly Hooper," a raspy voice said on the other side. 

She closed her eyes, about to cry with relief, pressed the button, and waited to open the door until she saw the driver through the peephole. He was wearing a large cap, and a big scarf almost covered his face, probably due to a bad cold, since he was coughing hard. 

"Rosie, I'll be back in a little while. Don't open up to anyone," Moly shouted inside and closed the door. 

The two of them lowered her last ex-boyfriend's dog heavy carrier into the cab back seat. Molly sat down next to it and put a protective arm over it. She brought the driver a piece of paper with the address, closed her eyes, and dropped her head on the seat while the driver started the engine. 

She and Rosie were asleep when Sherlock's message woke her. Still half-sleep while reading it, she thought the desert sun melted the detective's brain: _Take Mylo to the vet. It's getting sick. It will get worse,_ accompanied by two letters, TW, instead of Sherlock's usual sign.

Two seconds later, realizing what the detective meant, she jumped out of bed, woke up the girl, and, without turning on the lights, frantically trying to control the fear not to scare Rosie, she set everything. The fact Sherlock hadn't used his famous Vatican Cameos implied a clear warning: people involved may know the code. Don't trust anyone.

"You seem to be in a big hurry," observed the driver and burst into a loud cough, squinting, dazzled by the car's headlights immediately behind them.

Molly looked at him through the rearview mirror. God, how she missed her corpses from the morgue, still and quiet at their tables, and not that spy games. 

"My dog got sick." 

"He is not going to throw up, is he?" the driver panicked. "If he does, you will pay for the cleaning." 

"Don't worry, I'll pay for it, plus an extra if you get there in less than fifteen minutes." 

Without adding anything else, the taxi driver put his foot down. Molly held the carrier tightly as they flew through the streets. The brakes squeaked when the cabbie turned and changed lanes like crazy, changing direction without warning. Exactly fifteen minutes later, they stopped in front of a white and elegant house, with no trace of the vehicle that followed them. The driver looked at her, puzzled. 

Are you sure it is here?"

Molly nodded vehemently. 

"Your vet is doing fine," he observed. 

"She is the celebrities' vet," Molly replied. "Could you help me?" she asked, opening the door and dragging the carrier with difficulty. 

The driver got out of the vehicle and helped Molly up the steps four steps. 

"Wait for me, please; I will pay you triple what the cab fare is." 

The driver nodded and, without a word, got back into the cab, crossed his arms and closed his eyes, dozing while waiting for her. 

The pathologist rang the doorbell, trying to show a calm she was far from feeling. The seconds until the door opened felt like centuries. A woman in a nurse's uniform appeared on the other side of the door. 

"My dog ate something odd and got sick." 

The woman nodded and stepped aside. Two men in nurses' uniforms came out of the house, took the carrier, and got it inside. Molly followed them. The assistant was the last one, taking a look at the street before closing the door. 

"Follow me," she ordered, walking down a long corridor that forked in two. One led to a less lit up area and the other to clear rooms. The attendant stopped in a hallway and nodded. They left the carrier on the floor, and Molly opened it. A sweaty Rosie came out of it, excited and smiling broadly. 

"It was cool! Can we do it again? Did I do it right?" 

"Wonderful! Brilliant!" smiled Molly, the girl's face lighting at the praise as her godmother took her hands and helped her jump out. 

After deciphering Sherlock's message, she told Rosie she had to get into the carrier and be very quiet, no matter what happened. Rosie, knowing that something else was cooking in that game, obeyed without complaining or asking questions, reading the nervousness and fear in her godmother's face. 

"So you are Sherlock's daughter," smiled the assistant. 

Molly didn't fail to notice how everybody overlooked John in that place. Neither did Rosie, because she raised an eyebrow, staring at her. She enjoyed the adults' bewilderment when she acted that way, rather than the usual child's reactions, like hiding behind the adult or smiling openly. The woman laughed nervously, not knowing what to do. 

"My name is Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes," she replied, emphasizing the Watson. 

"I thought your name was Rosie." 

"That is just what my friends call me." 

She drew back in surprise as Molly bit her lips to keep from laughing at the Sherlockian impertinence her goddaughter was displaying. She cleared her throat and disappeared inside. 

"Brainy is lucky that one of my clients has a medical kink. Otherwise, I don't know where I would have got nurses' uniforms at this hour," Irene Adler's purring voice came to them in a tone of amused mockery. 

"What is a medical kink, Molly?" asked Rosie. 

"Better ask it to your parents when they came back, sweetheart," replied Molly, trying to avoid the subject. 

"Better ask your Papa what is a military kink; he could explain it widely," retorted the Woman, teasingly. 

"Irene!" scowled Molly, covering Rosie's ears with her hands, as the girl giggled. The Dominatrix entered the room, smiling amusedly, looking at Molly from top to bottom. The pathologist held her gaze under her scrutiny. Although she knew Sherlock chose Irene because her house was the safest place to leave Rosie, she didn't trust her. Her spider-like air waiting for her prey made her nervous.

"Who would have thought it? Me playing the baby sitter," she smiled fondly at the girl, "Sweetheart, come with me," she extended her hand towards Rosie, "I arranged a room for you. I hope you like it".

Rosie nodded, holding her hand. She liked Irene. Or, better said, she was intrigued by her. The girl was aware of the tension that invaded Baker Street every time she showed up, like when Maleficent appeared at Sleeping Beauty's christening. And how her usually calm and affable daddy turned into a kind of guard dog that prevented her from coming within three feet of Sherlock. But at the age of four, Rosie read people with ease, as Sherlock taught her. In her way, she knew Irene could be trusted, at least by her Papa, and she would not let anything happen to her. 

"Once you have settled, we can go for a little swim," Irene smiled. 

Rosie opened her eyes, delighted. 

"Do you have a pool?" 

"Yes, and floaters, and video games. That's what you kids like these days, isn't it?"

"Daddy only lets me play video games for half an hour each day," said Rosie, regretfully. 

"Here you can play all the time you want," she promised, making the girl's eyes light up. "What do you think?" Irene asked, standing at the door. 

"It's cool!" shouted Rosie, running to the bed and hugging a big stuffed bee. 

Molly looked around in surprise. The room was bright and spacious: walls painted in a soft sienna tone, covered with pictures of dogs and cats puppies, Ladybug, and Frozen movie posters, the big bed covered with stuffed animals, incidentally, the girl's favorites...

"Wow, I admit I was expecting something else," chuckled Molly, who feared that Irene would put the child in one of the basement cells that theoretically didn't exist in that building. 

"What did you expect? A dungeon? I'm saving that for..." Irene stopped at the pathologist's warning gaze. "Mandy, one of my assistants, is a mother, and from time to time, she leaves her daughter here. That's why I have all this... stuff."

Molly smiled to herself. She may not be the only consulting detective in the world, but it was clear that the Dominatrix was, if not lying, at least not telling the whole truth. It was clear she prepared that room not just for Mandy's daughter. 

Molly bent down in front of Rosie, who watched her closely. 

"Honey, your parents thought you should stay a few days with Irene," the girl nodded, biting her lower lip, pensive. The pathologist smiled, trying to instill confidence in her. "Obey her and behave yourself, okay?" 

"Don't listen to her. At Aunt Irene's, you don't eat vegetables, can watch TV, play videogames non-stop and eat all the ice cream we want. Here we do bad thingssssss," Irene wriggled her eyebrows comically, provoking the girl's laughter.

The pathologist gawked at her for a few moments and shrugged. It wasn't that strange either. If Sherlock melted away in front of Rosie, why not The Woman? 

Rosie hugged Molly, squeezing her tightly, resting her head on Molly's shoulder, scared, but trying to be brave, like her parents. The pathologist, noticing this, was tempted to take Rosie with her. But the risk was too high. 

She smiled again and kissed her on the cheek, placing a rebellious blonde streak.

"Everything is fine; you don't have to worry. As soon as I can, I'll come and get you, okay?" 

"I'd rather have Sherlock pick her up. I'll walk you to the door. Rosie, you can gossip through the drawers and make a mess of everything, as if you were in your room." 

"Thank you, Irene," whispered the pathologist as they walked away. "Will she be safe here?"

"Oh, don't thank me. I don't do this for free," she replied with a naughty smile before getting serious. "There is no place in London where she can be safer now. I have personal security, the house is almost fortified, and there is no possibility of wiretaps or cameras. My clients demand total privacy." 

Molly rolled her eyes. She could tell a mile away Irene was delighted that Sherlock owed her a favor. Still, it was clear that she loved the girl, though she tried to hide it by all means. 

They came to the door, and Molly turned around. 

"If anything happens to her, I will kill you." 

"Well, well, the kitten has teeth..." Irene scoffed. "You have nothing to worry about. She'll be safe here," she insisted. 

Irene closed the door and returned to the room, where Rosie was reading, sat on one of the armchairs, her legs bent over her body, the book leaning on them. The Woman smiled. Even if she was not his daughter, she had an undeniable resemblance to Sherlock, mixed with John's stubbornness and determination. 

Her mind went back to when she mistakenly thought the detective was trying to seduce her while deciphering the cell phone message she showed him. She was wrong, just like Iceman, though he was right about one thing: Sherlock was trying to impress someone, but not her. He unleashed and showed his brain's full potential, like a peacock its tail, while performing a seduction dance with her, hoping that jealousy would crack the wall behind which John hid his bisexuality. 

But it was she who got trapped into her own game, not realizing she could never have the detective's heart because it belonged to John, bisexual or not. 

She blinked, noticing the girl's gaze on her. Rosie observed her, deciding that the time had come. Because if there was one thing Irene had in common with her Papa, was neither could resist answering a question if they knew the answer. 

"What's going on, Aunt Irene?"

*****

Molly went downstairs and got into the cab. Without a word, the driver started the engine and headed for the pathologist's house. As he did so, some headlights came on behind the vehicle. Molly pulled out her cell phone and typed quickly _Mylo is at the vet_. She sighed and settled down in her seat, fighting the impulse to turn around and look at the car following them. 

After a few minutes, the taxi driver took a small black device out of the glove compartment, placed it on the dashboard, and pressed a button. A red light came on, blinked several times until it turned green. 

"You can talk now," Donovan's usual voice announced, a bit muffled by the scarf. 

Molly looked at her, amazed.

"What? We also have toys in New Scotland Yard", replied the sergeant, teasingly.

"I reckon you are the last person I expected tonight," smiled Molly.

"That's the trouble with helping Holmes to find John," she snarled without acrimony. "He thinks he has the right to bombard you with meaningless messages at any time of the night," boh chuckled. "It wouldn't have been safe for you to take a cab on the street. I guess that's why he wrote to me asking for a cab for you."

"Where did you get the cab?" she asked, shocked. 

"From the NSY warehouse. It was requisitioned from a taxi driver who was carrying drugs instead of passengers. I thought it would be better than bringing my own, and a patrol car would alarm them."

"What if you hadn't had one?"t

"I would pretend to be an Uber or Cabify." 

"Thank you for coming. I was so scared..."

"To tell you the truth, when I got Holmes' message saying you needed a cab because your dog was sick, I felt like going wherever he is and shooting him at point-blank range." They laughed heartily. "But, knowing him, he would only come to me if it was something vital, so I decided to take the cab and check you. What's this all about?"

"I don't know exactly. Anthea contacted us because Sherlock left her some papers before flying to Afghanistan, and today I received his message about Mylo". 

"How on earth you deduced he was referring to Rosie?"

Molly chuckled. 

"She has been checking for dog names since Sherlock and John promised her a puppy. She has a kilometric list, but the last one was Mylo, like my last ex-boyfriend's dog. This is why I had the dog carrier. The only thing I didn't return to him", she grimaced at the memory of Tom picking up his things in a gruff silent, all except the carrier, the last gift she gave him. It still hurt. But now it wasn't time for that. "Could you be back at Baker Street tomorrow at 7:30?"

"Wha..." Donovan left the question on the air and read the WhatsApp message that had just come in. She frowned, worried.

"Someone just broke into your house. A neighbor called NSY". 

The pathologist paled, scared. The idea that they could have broken into before getting Rose to safety made her shiver with fear. Donovan looked in the rearview mirror, blinded by the glare of the headlights of the vehicle following them.

"Whoever your friends are, they want you to know they are following you," she looked at the device, whose red light turned orange and was flashing endlessly. "They are trying to disable the wave inhibitor. I'm going to disconnect it, so they don't get suspicious. Do you have somewhere safe to spend the night?"

Molly nodded.

"With Mrs. Hudson." 

Donovan chuckled.

"There's no better place. That woman scares even Mycroft Holmes. But call me in case you need something, okay? I don't want to scare you, but now Rosie vanished, they could try to get you, to know where she is."

"Don't worry; we are well protected." 

Donovan raised his eyebrows but refrained herself from asking.

"I'm going to disconnect it." 

Molly nodded. Donovan turned the device off and put it in her jacket pocket. 

"I will stop by first to see a friend," Molly said in a neutral tone. "Let's go to 221 Baker Street". 

Immediately the headlights went out, and the car following them disappeared into the night. The taxi stopped in front of the black door of John and Sherlock's flat. Molly got out, looking sideways at the car parked a little further away, paid the cab driver, and knocked on the door. 

"Mrs. Hudson, it's Molly," she shouted. 

The door opened, and the pathologist disappeared behind it. Instead of going home, Donovan went to a bar where many taxi drivers usually met before starting their night shift, not far from Baker Street. She stopped the vehicle, got into it, bought a sandwich and a drink, and got back into the cab seat.

Six hours later, with a sore back, without having slept a wink, and grumbling, she started the taxi and stopped again in front of Baker Street, looking at the blue car parked in front of her, from which two men in black suits, watched her without the slightest dissimulation. 

A couple of minutes later, Mrs. Hudson came out into the street, visibly nervous, followed by a worried Molly. 

"Please, Mrs. Hudson, wait, they won't let you in." 

"I don't care!" snapped the landlady "he has to know it. He knows everything. And if he can sit in his office without..."

"We don't even know if he is there." The pathologist grabbed her arm, trying to stop her from getting into the cab as the sergeant attended the scene in bewilderment. Mrs. Hudson broke loose from Molly and got into the cab. 

Donovan watched the landlady in the rearview mirror. She never saw her so nervous and scruffy. Her hair was completely disheveled, she was wearing a brightly colored dress, and instead of lipstick, she just applied a bright red lip liner with trembling hand. 

"Well, someone has to know," the landlady insisted, looking at Molly with disgust, still on the sidewalk. "What are you waiting for? At this rate, we won't be able to get in." 

"For God's sake, Mrs. Hudson..."

"All right, I'll go alone. I don't need you at all".

She tried to close the door, angry, but Molly stopped her and climbed up beside her, upset. 

"Why are you so stubborn?"

"And how can you be so calm? It's been days since we heard from him, he vanished into thin air, and you act as nothing happened" he turned to Donovan and spoke angrily. "What are you looking at? Move on!."

"I don't... I don't know where we are going.", was her he nervous reply. 

The landlady sighed, exasperated, looking to an increasingly confused Donovan, who was beginning to worry about her. 

"I will guide you. Get this jalopy going. Go on, go on!" she yelled, gesturing exaggeratedly. 

Donovan obeyed, watching the blue car start and follow them, getting right behind the cab.

"Martha, this is... first, they won't let you in. Second, even if they did, she might not help you, you know how he is." 

"They won't let me in?" she howled. "If it is the last thing I do in my life. Turn to the right, TO THE RIGHT!!! For God's sake! Is there not one competent cab driver left in this bloody town?!"

Half an hour later, Donovan, on the verge of a nervous breakdown and wondering if she should call the paramedics, braked the vehicle to the insistent Mrs. Hudson's yelling, ordering her to stop. The blue car overtook them and stopped about fifty yards away. 

"Look, Martha," began Molly in a persuasive tone, "I will get some tea, and we quietly talk about it before doing anything, okay? I wouldn't want to have to pick you up at the station". 

"To the station! What nonsense," she pursed her lips, clearly fed up with Molly. "All right, I'll wait for you here." 

"Don't move, okay?" 

The landlady nodded, looking ostensibly in the opposite direction from Molly, as she, visibly nervous, got out of the car and crossed the street to enter a nearby café. 

When the pathologist disappeared, before Donovan could stop her, Mrs. Hudson got out of the vehicle and headed for the building stairs. She walked slowly and awkwardly, almost limping, as if her hip hurt more than usual, smiled thankfully at the man who opened the door for her and walked hesitantly to the reception desk. 

"Good morning dear, I don't know who I have to talk to, but I have a problem," groaned Mrs. Hudson in a trembling voice, albeit a shouting one, to the receptionist. 

She looked at the woman who wrung her hands nervously. Her eyes were red and puffed as if she had been crying, and her appearance indicated that she wasn't in her right mind. The receptionist flashed her most professional smile, cursing to herself, praying that this scruffy old woman would not be the problem of the day. 

"Tell me, how can I help you?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes's landlady," she shouted as loud as he could. 

The receptionist hesitated to ask her to speak more quietly when several people in the hall turned around when they heard the detective's name. 

"He hasn't shown up for days, and I want to see his brother, Mycroft Holmes." 

The receptionist closed her eyes. There it was—the problem of the day. 

"Mr. Holmes is not here." 

"I know, I'm his landlady, that's why I want to see his brother." 

The young woman narrowed her eyes and looked at Mrs. Hudson, who stared back at her with an innocent gesture. 

"I mean, Mr. Mycroft Holmes is not here at the moment." 

"Mycroft Holmes practically lives here. How could he not be? My dear, you should be more attentive, sitting here the whole day and not knowing anything… Young people… always focused on their phones…" she clicked her tongue with disappointment. 

The receptionist pressed her lips, offended. She was about to order the security team to make her leave the hall when a hurried, panting, and worried Molly rushed into the building, clearly chasing the landlady. 

"Mrs. Hudson," Molly gasped, "Why did you enter here? You promised me you would wait in the cab. "She turned to the receptionist, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry." 

"I want to talk to Mycroft Holmes," insisted the landlady. 

"Mr. Holmes is not in," repeated the receptionist, stubbornly. 

Molly composed an apologetic gesture. 

"I know you have to say he is not in, but she has been restless all night. Sherlock is almost like her son and..."

"Mr. Holmes is not in his office," repeated the receptionist with an icy smile, "and neither is his assistant. I'm sorry, I can't let you in." 

"I will wait here until he comes,' replied the landlady, turning resolutely to one of the waiting room chairs. 

"No…" started the receptionist and closed her mouth, not knowing how to deal with that stubborn woman. 

"Please, it will only be a minute," repeated Molly, with a pleading look. "As you can see, she is not very well…, "she pointed at her temple. "Believe me. I know her. She is impossible, and she won't leave this building until she talks with anybody, if not Mr. Holmes, someone who can help her. And you have no idea what a fuss she might make if you ask security to take her out. Imagine, a helpless old woman being maltreated by security guards…" 

The receptionist flinched, picturing the scene. She gazed at Mrs. Hudson, who was staring at the wall and leaning over the chair, mumbling to herself, shaking her head. The receptions did not want to imagine the repercussions of trying to throw her out of the building. 

"All right, all right," she gave up, holding Molly two visitor's cards. "Bob, can you escort them to Lady Smallwood's office?"

Bob, one of the security guards, nodded, resigned. He had been afraid all along that the problem would fall on him. 

"Come with me, please." 

They went up in the elevator with him. Mrs. Hudson protested at how quickly it was going up, assuring the stairs were better, babbling on and on. As she spoke, she tapped Bob's arm incessantly to get his attention, who rapidly was running out of patience. 

They got out of the elevator and followed him down a long corridor, that Molly recognized as the one leading to Mycroft's office. She walked down it once, years ago, when she helped Sherlock to plan his fake suicide. As they passed through a more open area where many of the older Holmes' collaborators worked and was surrounded for several offices, Mrs. Hudson stopped short. 

"Where is Mycroft Holmes' office?" she quacked at the top of her lungs. 

The hum of voices, phones, typing, and meetings cut short. The office's glass doors opened, and all the heads, some puzzled, some terrorized, turned to the old woman who stood in the middle of the room, scowling at them, like a teacher waiting for an answer, oblivious that no one would dare of shouting that name in that place. 

"Madam, please..." groaned the poor security guard, fearing to be fired. 

The workers looked at each other and back at her again, undecided. They were trained to fight spies, dismantle plots or terrorist networks, but not to deal with a furious and resolute Mrs. Hudson. 

"What's the matter?" croaked Mrs. Hudson, irritated, "Have you all gone dumb? I'm looking for Mycroft Holmes. Do I have to spell it out?"

"Mr. Holmes is not here," replied one of the agents, swallowing, his throat dry. 

"Mr. Holmes is not here; Mr. Holmes is not here; you are like parrots. Don't you know how to say anything else? How can he not be here? He _lives_ here."

Molly spotted Lady Smallwood approaching them in a fast-paced through the corridor and slapped her forehead loudly. 

"Mrs. Hudson, don't you remember? Sherlock told us they were going on a trip," she shouted, cheerful. 

"On a trip? What nonsense are you talking about?"

"'Yes, yes, they were on a case, he and Mycroft. And Sherlock told you that when they finished it, his brother would go... to France?" she asked, as doubting his memory. 

"France? Mycroft Holmes has never been to France in his life. Stop talking nonsense." 

"No..., Sherlock said a name, how it was, how it was... ah Charmant!" shouted the pathologist, making all the heads turn towards her

"To Champagne? Why they want to go to Champagne?"

"Nooo, to CHARMANT CHAR-MANT! To the castle!" Molly turned to the long-suffering security guard with a confidential air, though speaking loudly. "Mycroft bought a castle in France, in Charmant, and, when the case is over, he would go there and set it." 

Mrs. Hudson's face lit up as if she just remembered. 

"It's true, it's true, he bought it from that estate agent... what was it called... Les Châtelons?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, les châtelains. Les Châ-te-la-ins." 

"Then I'm sure Sherlock is there with him," sighed Mrs. Hudson, relieved. She turned to a group of agents and smiled, with an affectionate, dreamy air. "Sherlock and Mycroft are always together; few brothers love each other so much." 

The officers, who had witnessed ferocious fights between them, looked at each other and the landlady with compassionated air. That poor woman lived outside of reality. 

She turned to Molly with an angry gesture.

"Why didn't you remember before? She checked her watch, noticing the impatient faces around her, "You are going to make me miss the chapter in my favorite TV show, and today he is going to propose her. You're useless," she muttered angrily, holding her arm tightly. Molly pursed her lips and walked out quickly, dragging the landlady behind her, each one muttering to herself in anger. 

Thanking God and all the other deities he knew, Bob walked them out of the building. 

They got into the cab, still arguing. Donovan, aware of the car following them, kept quiet until they reached Baker Street. 

"Could you help me get her up to her flat? She's got a bad hip." 

Donovan nodded, got out of the car, and let Mrs. Hudson, limping exaggeratedly, lean on her. Molly opened the door, and they both followed her, entering 221 A.

"I'm going to make tea, would you like some?. It was very kind of you to help me up. I wish everyone were as nice to me as you are," the landlady spoke softly, though glaring at Molly. 

"I would be nice if you wouldn't get on my nerves," Molly shook her head, "Going into the building alone…"

"Thank you, madam," replied Donovan, not understanding anything but eager to play her part well in that masquerade.

"Have you got calmer, Mrs. Hudson?" asked Molly.

"Completely. But I will give Sherlock a good scolding when he gets back. Not telling me Mycroft bought a castle... he could have taken me with him. I also need holidays... What do you think, do French castles have ghosts too?" she asked an increasingly baffled sergeant.

They chatted on for a while, Mrs. Hudson blurting out blunders here and there over tea until they heard a hard thump on the roof, followed by two fast and two slow ones. 

Donovan looked up in surprise, even more so when Molly motioned for her to join them, walking towards the door. Together they climbed the seventeen steps to 221B. She walked in and gaped. 

The flat was still a wreck, just as Sherlock left it, but the living room was littered with screens, keyboards, hard drives, laptops, and other devices she didn't recognize, all of them scattered among rubble and paper. Sitting in a chair, moving between several screens, she recognized Craig, the hacker who Sherlock resorted to when he needed to gather information in an unorthodox way. But what surprised her most was to see, next to him, dressed in a back suit, a smiling Anthea, without her famous mobile in her hands.

"You were great!" Mycroft's assistant clapped her hands in excitement when they walked in, as Mrs. Hudson turned on herself and bowed. 

"We are the resistance!" shouted Molly excitedly, making the other three women laugh. "Credit is yours,' she pointed to the landlady, 'if you hadn't sat down, we would have been kicked out of there. Poor receptionist, I thought she was going to have a heart attack". 

"You, too, my dear. It was perfect," she turned to Donovan, "thanks for the ride. I admit I was surprised to see you, but I am relieved you are here."

"Sherlock thought we could use a driver," Molly looked sideways at Sally, who quickly understood she did not want Mrs. Hudson to know Rosie had been in danger. 

"Holmes told you to perform that?" asked Donovan, looked at Mrs. Hudson, and the other four laughed. 

"Sherlock asked us to find a way to make them go to a castle in France," replied Anthea. "Martha thought there was nothing more credible than a forgetful older woman's ravings. And she was right. You got yourselves in the role". 

"Yes, indeed. I was on the verge of strangling you in the cab", assure the sergeant, making the rest laugh. Then the landlady glanced sadly at the half-destroyed flat.

"I'm sorry, Martha... but this is now the safest place in the whole world," Anthea apologized. Like Mycroft, she had a special respect for the landlady that increased on those days, during which they had been in closer contact. "Sherlock made every effort. He didn't leave even the tiniest device alive. We checked it." 

"I know well, dear. I still have a headache from the blows and hammers. But that's not what's important now. Although... I thought Mycroft's men would fix it." 

Anthea frowned.

"Yes, me too. He didn't order to do that or to replace the surveillance immediately, which is strange. But Mycroft has been acting a bit weird lately, so... just in case, I told my mates they should wait until he came back". 

"Do you think they will take the bait?" asked Molly. 

"They followed and eavesdropped you, which is a good sign." 

"Thanks for warning us. Otherwise, we would have started shouting right into the building," smiled Molly. 

"Yes, not a word out of here." She pointed to the car stopped in front of the building.

They couldn't see inside 221B because Anthea and Craig drew the heavy curtains that Sherlock used to blind the windows, but only the hacker's expertise and devices prevented them from listening and seeing what was going on inside.

"Anthea, someone just contacted Lyon Saint Exupéry Airport," reported Craig, typing quickly. 

"It worked! Lyon is the closest airport to Charmant." 

"Can we see who booked the flight?" Donovan asked.

Mycroft's assistant shook her head. 

"It's an airport for private jets, all data is confidential, and the only identifier is a locator. Trying to get that information would put them on notice." 

"So, what do we do now?" 

"Sherlock sent a message with a complementary plan" she looked sideways at his mobile, resting on the coffee table next to a piece of handwritten paper, and an open book placed face down opened in the middle. Donovan, curious, read it. 

" _I'm_ _counting the minutes until we meet again. I miss you so much it hurts._ Holmes wrote you a love letter?!!!!"

Anthea laughed willingly. 

"Don't get too excited. It's part of the code." She took a small backpack and hanging on her back. "Warn me of anything suspicious. I don't think they are targeting you right now, but… I'm not sure in the future," she grimaced. "Sorry. Reassurance is not part of my job." 

"It's all right, dear, compared to Sherlock, you are a balm for the soul," chuckled Mrs. Hudson.

"Come with me. I'd like to show you something..." Anthea asked Sally who, surprised, followed her up the stairs to John's old room, which was now Rosie's.

"Sherlock used this way out when your mates were watching him. I think you should know this if the three of you need to leave the flat without being noticed". 

"What happened? Apart from Rosie's." she lowered his voice in the last sentence. 

Anthea shrugged, worried. 

"Sherlock didn't trust in Mike's mission, and he thought someone could be targeting Mycroft. But now…First, Rosie, now Sherlock's message," she pursed her lips and gestured to the car in front, "Mycroft didn't set that surveillance." 

"Are you sure?"

"It would be much more discreet, and, besides, he would have asked me to set it up. You got Rosie to safety by a miracle, and they have been watching the flat ever since. Something's happening, but I don't know what it is. And that worries me".

"Why are you telling me this? I could be one of them." 

Anthea smiled and, without answering, climbed over the closet and pressed a switch hidden behind it. There was a small snap, and a trapdoor opened on the roof. She stood up on the wardrobe, jumped out, and beckoned her. Sally went out on the roof of the building and lay down beside her. 

"That's how that bastard came out," Donovan groaned, "hours and hours of watching him and Holmes was jumping off the roofs like Mary Poppins." 

Mycroft's assistant chuckled. 

"It's a beautiful sunny day," Craig's voice came through her walkie-talkie.

"That's the sign that everything is clear. This is a blind spot. Sherlock just had to wait for Craig to hack into the surrounding CCTV cameras, playing back old footage. That's why you couldn't see anything when you viewed them at NSY." 

Sally shook her head, angry and incredulous, of how easily Sherlock outwitted them right under their noses. 

"Would you mind returning the cab and then going back with them? I would be relieved if they were with someone who knew how to shoot a gun." 

Still angry, Sally nodded. She liked Anthea asked her to be part of the group. 

"Welcome to Anthea's squad, then," smiled the assistant. 

Donovan raised an eyebrow. 

"A bit smug, don't you think?"

She shrugged. 

"It was Craig's idea. He said we should have a name, and if he had named it Holmes' squad, your head would have turned three hundred and sixty degrees at the thought of belonging to it," she replied. 

Donovan nodded, pleasantly surprised. She met Anthea a couple of times, always glued to Mycroft's heels, meekly obeying his orders, her nose in her mobile, and gave her the impression that she was as uptight as Mycroft was. But she proved to be an intelligent, practical, friendly woman with a great sense of humor. Why she was working with Mycroft was something Donovan had not yet managed to unravel. 

"I have to go. I will explain it to you some other time," replied winking. 

"You have the deduction thing as well?"

"I don't need to; your face speaks like an open book," she gestured to the trapdoor, "Be careful." 

The sergeant nodded and disappeared onto the flat. Anthea waited until the trapdoor closed and smiled. She liked Donovan. A little moody, maybe, but she could count on her.

She got up, took the momentum, and ran, jumping from roof to roof until she reached the last building on the block, covered with scaffolding, just as Sherlock did every night as he prepared for his trip to Afghanistan or when he carried Rosie to Molly's. 

She carefully walked down it and jumped onto the sidewalk, walked a few steps looking at her phone. A homeless approached her, asking for some coins. She took a few out of her pocket and, along with a note carefully folded, placed them in his hand and hailed a cab.

Once in Mycroft's office, she went to the canteen, where several assistants ate lunch around a table. She smiled to herself, thanking her luck. Bertha, one of the most gossipy, capable of spreading a rumor around the office in seconds, was between them. When they saw her arrive, they invited her to join them. The assistant smiled, went to leave her rucksack in Mycroft's office, and took a sandwich, went over to sit among her colleagues who, amidst laughter, told her about Mrs. Hudson's visit. 

"Fuck!" snarled Anthea when Charmant was mentioned. Her companions looked at her in surprise. 

She stood up, protesting quietly. 

"What's going on?"

"What's going on? I'm going to get a good scolding from that... crazy old lady. My boss made it very clear he didn't want anyone to know about the castle. Absolutely no one, and now I've got a security hole." she shook her head, desperate. The rest nodded, emphatically; they know how annoyed Mycroft would get at a mistake like that. "Besides..."

She fell silent, covered her mouth with her hand. 

"Besides?" asked one of them.

"Nothing, nothing. Don't mind me. It's just... nothing," she stood up, dragging the chair tightly, panic reflected on her face. "Sorry I have to go." 

She ran back to Mycroft's office and closed the door. Then, she took a breath and opened her laptop, and wrote a quick email.

******

The sound of a loud explosion alerted them up. Sherlock cursed as John pulled him to the ground, parapetting them behind the cot and drawing his gun, like the rest of the former soldiers, watching the dark, dense column of smoke that came out of the truck window. 

"Mycroft!" cried Lestrade, running towards the vehicle, chased by Sholto.

After the fight with Sherlock, the older Holmes locked himself in, slamming the door in the DI's face, without the slightest explanation. Lestrade went to the cot alone and furious, wondering why the hell he was dating that man. 

"My fault,' coughed a contrite Mycroft, opening the truck door betweens clouds of greyish smoke, raising his hands, holding a fire extinguisher, "metal cup in the microwave." 

Sherlock snorted. Only Mycroft could have blown up the implant surrounded by soldiers with PTSD. The rest, still startled, looked at each other. Lestrade frowned, turned, and walked away, fuming. The elder Holmes' relaxed tone pissed him off even more. He had been up the whole bloody night worrying about Mycroft, walking around the truck to check if he was okay, and his boyfriend was happily and de-stressedly playing with a fire extinguisher. 

"Gregory," he heard Mycroft shout behind him, "Wait!"

"Keep playing with your bloody microwave," Lestrade snarled, quickening his pace. "Or better yet, ask Sherlock to help you. He will find some way to blow up the truck". 

Mycroft grabbed him by the arm, but the DI broke loose and continued to walk away with great strides. It was a mistake to come back with him after what Mycroft told him about Serbia, only because he seemed to care for him after being shot. What was wrong with him? How could he have been such a fool? How could he still be in love with that, that…?

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaarg" he roared, helpless and frustrated when Mycroft tried to stop him again, making his boyfriend jump back a bit. 

"Leave me alone; don't take another step! I don't want to hear any more from you. Can't you think about anyone else but yourself? It's over, damn it, this is over. As soon as we get home... fuck, and I was complaining about Sherlock. Fucking Holmes..." 

Mycroft ran out in front of him. Greg stood and cocked his head. 

"Listen to me, please," Mycroft begged. 

"Myc, get out of my way, or I'll make you," he hissed, menacingly. 

"Please, I'm just asking you to listen to me. Then you can do whatever you want. Hate me, leave me, hit me... but I need to explain myself." he pleaded, desperate.

Lestrade scratched his head, sure that something was wrong inside it. Otherwise, why had he been putting up with Sherlock at crime scenes for years only to become the boyfriend of his insufferable brother? But it was true that Mycroft, like Sherlock, never begged. 

He closed his eyes and sighed. 

"It's a mistake. I know this is a mistake. But go ahead. Explain yourself, if you can." 

Mycroft took a look at the others, making sure they were far enough away not to hear anything. Lestrade listened to him, skeptical at the beginning. Slowly, his anger dissipated, as his heart was warmed by all that Mycroft did to protect him, and it shrank at the knowledge of the threat hanging over Rosie. 

"Molly got her to safety," quickly added Mycroft.

He told him how, as soon as he received Molly's message, and taking care not to wake anyone, Sherlock, half dizzy with relief, slipped into the truck through the window and told him. He didn't tell him, because both brothers swore never to tell anyone that they hugged each other, crying with relief until Sherlock disappeared and went back to John. 

"Shouldn't we come back to London to protect her?"

Mycroft shook his head. 

"We thought about it yesterday. If we miss catching them, Rosie will always be in danger. And she is safe there. Miss Adler has a little army to protect her. She still has a lot of enemies". 

"Irene?" Lestrade gaped. 

"Yes, she has us in her hands again, but she will protect Rosie. She knows Sherlock will kill her if something happened to her. And, of course, she will collect his debt", he sighed. "Donovan and Anthea are there too in case she needs more protection, so she will be well protected." 

Lestrade remained silent, processing all the information. Irene, Anthea… even Donovan. Sherlock stopped at anything to protect Rosie. 

"But... how could Sherlock know about the implant, or that it was in your cheekbone if you couldn't tell him?"

"I told him with my umbrella." 

"This is the most stupid thing…" Lestrade grunted, picturing Mycroft dancing with his umbrella like Gene Kelly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes again. 

"Not in that way, idiot," he said fondly. "When we were little, our mother forced us to attend insufferably boring dinners, with even more boring adults. They talked and talked, and we weren't allowed to disturb them. So, we invented a secret language, somehow based on Morse code. Without knowing the code, it's impossible to find a pattern in the tapping. At the table, we used knives because the cloth muffled the tapping. This time I used my umbrella. It's a simple language that only allows for simple phrases, but it was enough to let him know about it". 

Lestrade rolled his eyes. This was how geniuses spent their childhood. 

"And why didn't you tell him this before?" 

"Sherlock was so angry he wouldn't have listened to me," Lestrade nodded, remembering how he tried to mediate between the two brothers. "First, about what I said to John about the restaurant and then about bringing him here. I knew that he would put the pieces together sooner or later, and at that moment, he would be willing to listen to me. Apart, I was too terrified. Any attempt to communicate with him could make them try to hurt Rosie." 

"My God, Myc," Lestrade hugged him tightly. 

Mycroft couldn't hold back any longer and burst into tears, relieving the tension, fear, and anguish of the last few months. The DI let him cry, rubbing his back, stroking his hair, and pecking his stitched cheek from time to time. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I should have realized something was wrong. I knew you weren't such an animal with no feelings, but I was so angry and hurt for what you said…"

Mycroft shook his head. 

"You don't have anything to apologize for. I was so scared; I wasn't thinking clearly. I hurt you and let you down," whimpered between sobs. "I was so afraid for you, for Rosie. I was terrified of losing you both…" 

"You have to work much harder to lose me, Mycroft Holmes. But, this is the last time something like this happens, and you don't tell me. You'll figure it out how, but, next time, warn me, okay?". 

Mycroft nodded, blushing at the realization that he was hiccupping from so much crying. He cleared his throat and stood up, trying to maintain some dignity. Lestrade smiled. 

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you are a cry-baby," he teased him, lovingly wiping away his tears. Then frowned, "But... how Sherlock didn't deduce you were hiding something?"

"I know how to hid my emotions from Sherlock. I have always been doing it since he was a child. And he was too focused on rescue John to deduce me".

"John knows this?"

"Sherlock wants to wait a bit until he is more recovered. Although I think it would be better to tell him now, while he still has one arm in a sling. He still hates me."

Lestrade chuckled and kissed his lips softly. 

"He will understand. You did it to protect Rosie. That makes up for everything": 

"Time to go," shouted Sherlock from the truck, waving his arms to get his attention before Mycroft could add anything. "We got a message from Aunt Lori," he said mockingly.

"Aunt Lori?"

"Anthea must have discovered something. When I hired her, Mummy said she looked a lot like Lori, a friend of hers that we loved very much and called Aunt Lori. I told her, hence the choice of cover.". 

Mycroft tossed his hair and stretched, recomposing his haughty air, which he kept up when they both got into the vehicle. 

Sholto drove in the direction where the Cessna left him, Sherlock, and the homeless days before, driving with the windows open to avoid the smell of burnt metal. 

"We will have two guests, but we can expect more," announced Sherlock reading Anthea's message, "She has everything set."

"Next step?" asked John. 

"We will go to Switzerland. Once there, Mycroft, Lestrade, and you," he pointed to the homeless, "will pick Mycroft's plane, so that his cronies will perfectly detect it in the secret service. It will take you to Lyon and then by car to the castle. We" he gestured to himself, John, Sholto and John's army mates "will get there undetected. I will explain the rest on the plane." 

"Won't it be suspicious it's not just the two of us?" asked Lestrade, shaking his head at the homeless. The SAS had disappeared a few hours ago, in the middle of the night. 

Sherlock smiled. 

"Theoretically, Mycroft is there to set his new property, and he will need a lot of staff. No one will be surprised if he arrives with them and wants to supervise everything personally".

"I'm not wearing a liner," joked Mark making the rest laughed, excited with the plans. 

"And how will they know where the castle is?" 

"I put it up for sale at an online luxury real estate agency, where the address is listed; they could check it there," answered Sherlock. 

"Mummy is going to kill you when she finds out you put her castle up for sale," Mycroft warned him.

"The castle is yours, so she will be upset with you. And she doesn't have to know," retorted Sherlock, a hint of worry dancing in his words.

"It's not mine yet. Still hers. And she will find it. She always does." his brother stated thoughtfully. 

"And if not, you'll snitch, like you did when we were little." 

The others looked at each other in disbelief, their heads turning as if in a tennis match.

"Because you were never scolded. As you were littler than me..." Mycroft replied in a sappy tone

"That's not true. Dad punished me." 

"Yes, ordering you to go to the kitchen, where the cooks gave you tons of cake to comfort you."

Sherlock chuckled at the memory. 

"Your mother owns a castle?" Sholto asked. 

He didn't know what surprised him more. That their mother had a castle or that they were both going to use it for deception. 

Mycroft sighed. 

"It's not exactly a medieval castle, as you are picturing, with battlements, moat, and all that. We used to call it like this when we were little because it has red conical roofed towers and we spent some summers there. But it's big enough and has enough nooks and crannies to make it perfect for this stunt."

"Besides, it's isolated enough to embolden them, believing that Mycroft will be more or less unprotected, cut off from his men, cameras...," Sherlock said. "And if they believe my brother had gone on holiday, they've bought into the whole thing," he added, looking for the Cessna preparing to land and pick them. 


	8. In the French Castle

The plane slowly and quietly landed in a hidden hangar near Bern. When it stopped, everyone looked at Sherlock. 

"Here we part," he turned to Mycroft, who was typing on his phone, "All set?

His brother nodded and stood up. One of the pilots opened the aircraft door, and he, along with Lestrade, Jake, Pete, Mark, Rob, Patrick, Andrew, and Daniel, left the plane. 

"What about us?" 

"We're going to the hospital."

John shook his head. 

"I told you I am fine," he replied, stubbornly, in a tone that made it clear he would not give up his arm. 

"We too" supported his mates in chorus. 

"I know. But if only Mycroft shows up in Switzerland, they will realize we are setting up an ambush. We will go to the clinic so that they can identify us through the CCTV. The doctors could check you, and we will go back to the plane to go to France". 

John watched him for a few moments, narrowing his eyes. 

"You're not thinking of leaving us there and going by yourself, are you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

The detective composed a gesture of innocence, but after a few seconds under his husband's scrutiny, he bit his upper lip, caught. It was just what he had planned, to leave them there and go to the castle by himself, to prevent more damage to John's shoulder. He dropped his shoulders, defeated. 

"Well, I'm glad we agree," John replied.

Sherlock sighed.

"Then we will fly to Bagnizeau, a wooded region near the castle. Once there, we will walk to the castle". 

"Won't Mycroft and the others get there first?" Bill asked, worried. 

"No, they have to set the airport's performance. Their flight will take a while yet. They won't get to the castle until we're inside". 

"Airport's performance?" asked Sholto.

*****

Mycroft walked quickly to the bottom of the hangar, followed by the others. He opened the door of what looked like a warehouse, and they entered a room from which a corridor with several doors emerged. A tall, circumspect man was waiting for them, sitting on one of the room's chairs; when he saw them, he stood up and shook Mycroft's hand. 

"Thank you for fulfilling the order so quickly". 

The man smiled. 

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes. This is included on the bill". 

Mycroft rolled his eyes as the man disappeared for a moment to return, pushing a bar from which they were hanging several garment bags. Without a word, he took them and gave one to each homeless, who looked at them, a bit puzzled, noticing their names on the labels. Finally, he gave one to Mycroft and another to Greg. 

"Do you need anything else?" he asked Mycroft. 

"No, Arthur, thank you very much. I'm counting on your discretion". 

The man looked at him, offended. 

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. We tailors are like priests: we keep the secret of confession". 

He chuckled at his own joke and disappeared through one of the doors. 

"Time to change," announced Mycroft, gesturing to the others. 

They opened the suits bags and gasped. In each one, a stylish Midnight Navy Blue suit in wool, with a white shirt and pearl-grey tie, black belt, and cuff links. 

Mike ran his hand down the sleeve, almost with reverence. 

"God, it's been ages since I've worn a custom-made suit." 

Lestrade looked at him, surprised. It was easy to forget these men had a life before living in the streets, with a job, a family, and a routine. Life, at times, could be a bitch. 

"Gentlemen, these are your new uniforms. In those rooms," Mycroft gestured to the doors, "you can shower, shave, and you'll find your shoes. Do your best. You must be flawless. I will check you, and I am warning you: I'm a very demanding man". 

Lestrade nodded, rolling his eyes, causing the homeless to giggle. Mycroft looked at him, arching one eyebrow. 

"Would you like to share anything with us, Gregory?

The DI blushed slightly, lowered his gaze, and shook his head, feeling as if his former teacher at school had scolded him. 

"I thought so," replied Mycroft, fondly, laughter dancing in his eyes. He regained his seriousness and turned to the rest. "You have exactly thirty minutes to get ready. If any of you are not, we will leave without him".

After a few seconds of stupor, everyone grabbed their suits and rushed to the back of the hangar. 

"You too, Gregory. Although I can't deny that your outfit is..., stimulating and I hope you use it more often at home..."

Lestrade chuckled at the innuendo. 

"... It's time for you to wear a real suit". 

"Git," smiled Lestrade, walking through another door. On the other side, he found a spacious bathroom with a shower, and next to it, a dressing room with mirrors. He opened the bag and pulled out a two-button black suit. He didn't even want to know what it had cost, but he was sure that many months of his salary in NSY. Accompanied by a dark blue shirt, no tie. Mycroft knew he hated wearing them. He smiled affectionately at the detail. It must have cost him a world not to add it to the set. 

He shook his head. He was staring at the suit like a fool, and time was running out. 

Half an hour later, perfectly shaven and dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror and chuckled. He looked like an older and more robust version of Sherlock. He went out into the hallway where Mycroft, perfectly dressed in his usual three-piece suit, watched him with approval. 

Greg turned in on himself, delighted. He couldn't deny that the suit made him feel attractive and confident. He sighed. How easy it was to get used to the good stuff. 

"You are... impressive," Mycroft muttered, stunned. 

"I know," Lestrade replied, and both chuckled. He walked over and kissed Mycroft, stroking his cheek wound. 

"You look fabulous too." 

Mycroft blushed. He didn't consider himself an attractive man, and being told by Lestrade made him nervous and flattered him at the same time. 

One after another, homeless men appeared, shaved, and perfect into their new suits. 

Rob and Patrick, uncomfortable wearing the ties, were pulling at their collars, which Mycroft immediately reproached. The rest seemed comfortable with their clothing, although they kept looking around to make sure they didn't rub against it, trying not to spoil the suits. 

They lined up, standing at attention, letting Mycroft take a look at them with a critical eye one by one, smoothing out a wrinkle here, removing a thread there, or fixing a collar.

A VIP passenger van was waiting for them outside. The driver got out and loaded the heavy bags while they got in. He set off and took the road to Bern airport.

*****

The plane landed vertically in the forests near Moossedorf. Sherlock jumped to the ground and started walking quickly, followed by John, Sholto, and the rest of ex-soldiers. 

A quarter of an hour later, the forest opened up, and a large three-story building with black roofs appeared before them, surrounded by gardens. A building that, in an inexperienced observer's eyes, would pass by a private mansion. 

The detective crossed the automatic glass doors and got near the reception. He glanced around with an absent-minded look, but John knew that he was mapping out all the security features. He moved a little to the right, to be clearly spotted by the CCTV cameras, and the others imitated him. 

"Sherlock Holmes," he took out a credit card and gave it to the receptionist. 

The woman nodded.

"Everything is ready."

She waved to a nurse who guided them through the corridors, setting them up in a large room with stretchers. 

"The team will be here shortly," she announced.

The detective thanked her, and the woman disappeared.

"The team?" asked Luke. 

"Since we are here, I thought it would be good if they took a look at you." 

John frowned and opened his mouth in protest. 

"Just that, really," replied the detective quickly. "They know we don't have much time. I just want to make sure you are okay, that's all". 

John nodded. Though he hadn't said anything, his shoulder was hurting badly again. A doctor examined it while the nurses attended and treated the others. He injected him a mixture of anti-inflammatory drugs and painkillers and put a new sling on it. John sighed, alleviated, disregarding Sherlock's worried gaze.

When all the treatments were over, the woman who had carried them to the rooms reappeared with forms on her arm.

"You will have to..."

Suddenly, everything went dark. The woman took out several small flashlights, gave them each one, and gestured to follow her.

They left the room, lined up the stairs, rushed down to a narrow hallway, and walked to a steep staircase edge. The woman gave Sherlock something. 

"You know the way," she said, with a certain mockery in her voice. 

The detective nodded and went down a narrow corridor, bending between pipes and air conditioning ducts, followed by the others, until he reached a door no more than five feet high. To the right of it, a code reader. He passed the electronic key that the woman had given him through it and the door opened with a gentle buzz. 

"This tunnel leads to the forest," explained the detective. "It was built by the resistance during the Second World War so that they could hide escaped Allied soldiers from the concentration camps" he bent down and went inside.

John looked at the walls, dug into the earth, shored up with wood, and entered the tunnel behind the detective, followed by his friends. The air was not thin, so there must have been some hidden ventilation holes. 

They walked silently, at a good pace, only accompanied by the sound of their breathing and their footsteps in the gravel on the ground, until they reached a wall with wooden crossbeams nailed up. 

"How did you know there was a tunnel?" asked John, as surprised as the others. 

Sherlock grimaced. 

"Mycroft brought me here on one of my... detoxes. Two other drug addicts, one gambler, one food-addict, and I sneaked out through it in the evenings. That's why they put a security lock on it". 

The others snorted but fell silent when John frowned at them, only to turn to look at the detective with disapproval. 

"What? We only wanted to mess a bit with the security team".

John shook his head amidst the other's drowned laughter.

To settle the matter, the detective stepped aside and waved Sholto and the others upstairs. John stood beside them, watching them. He gestured to take off his sling. 

"Not a chance," objected the detective, "Hold on to me; I'll get us both up." 

"I could have asked Sholto." 

Sherlock pursed his lips. 

"All right, Mr. Jealousy, pull me up," John scoffed. 

Sherlock almost squatted down so that John could hold on to his back. 

"You lanky prick..." 

They both chuckled. Sherlock climbed up slowly, panting with effort, with John firmly holding on to him. He would have preferred to climb up by himself, holding on with one arm, but he knew the detective would not have given his arm away. 

When he surfaced, he held on to Sholto's outstretched arm, which pulled him up quickly and helped Sherlock to climb up afterwards. 

They walked to the clearing where the Cessna was waiting for them and settled back into it as it took off. 

*****

The van stopped at the international departure terminal at Bern airport. The driver got out and opened the door. One after the other, the homeless got out and lined up perfectly on the pavement, waiting, which immediately caught the attention of the travellers around them. 

A VIP hostess left the building and waited at the foot of the van. She smiled as Lestrade stepped out of it, slightly embarrassed by the onlooker's large crowd the display was gathering around them. A second later, a stiff, haughty, and completely calm Mycroft got out of the van. 

"Ready?" he asked Lestrade. 

He shrugged nervously. Mycroft smiled fondly and squared his jacket over his shoulders. 

"Don't worry, you'll be fine. Besides, it's good that you practice. After all, you will soon become a Holmes". 

Lestrade gaped. 

"What do you mean?"

"Gregory, being the smartest guy in NSY, as my dear brother says, you should know it," Mycroft replied, smugly smiling, putting on his gloves, wielding his umbrella. He walked away determinedly, followed by a gaping Lestrade, wondering if Mycroft had really done what he seemed to have done. 

Three more attendants appeared to take charge of the luggage. Soon the entourage entered the terminal: making way for ten members of the airport security team, who, distributed around them, pushed everyone who approached the group aside, making all the heads turn with curiosity to try to discover which celebrity was crossing the airport, causing a commotion that could not go unnoticed.

The waiters with the luggage trolleys followed them. Then Mark, Pete, and Rob, entirely in their roles, distilled professionalism, walking upright, serious, and paused. Mycroft and Lestrade, the former standing upright and not paying the slightest attention to what was going on around him. The latter, almost dizzy by Mycroft's words and a little embarrassed by the commotion they caused, also stood upright and trying to maintain the most distinguished posture possible.

After them, Roy, Patrick, Daniel, and Andrew, stiffer than a stick, were also gawking at the interest they raised in people; they were used to being invisible to Londoners when lying, sleeping, eating, or walking through the streets of the city. 

"I will not take your last name," Lestrade muttered when he finally recovered his speech. 

"Is that a yes?" the elder Holmes asked without looking at him. 

"Mycroft, being as smart as you boast, you should know it by now." 

Mycroft bit his lips to hide a smile and made a supreme effort not to kiss Lestrade, who was striving for the same thing while holding back the urge to greet those on either side of the procession to watch them. 

"I thought you preferred to keep a low profile," muttered the DI. 

"And I do. But I also know how not to do it when necessary". 

"Forget about our wedding being like this." 

"We'll discuss it on the plane." 

"I won't change my mind." 

"We'll see about that.

They walked behind the assistant who took them to the airport's VIP area, safe from the onlookers' glances. None of them broke formation as they headed for the small hangar where Mycroft's private plane was waiting for them. 

The pilot went down the stairs and came to greet him, while the purser instructed the waiters to put away their luggage. They boarded the plane and sat in the comfortable leather seats, waiting for it to take off. 

******

Sherlock, John, Sholto, Bill, and the rest walked quickly to cover nearly two kilometres that separated them from the castle. Although most of the land was farmlands, the old road linking the two towns was flanked by several rows of trees that covered them perfectly in the darkness of night. They did not carry torches; the detective remembered the way perfectly; when he was a child, he used to go to Bagnizeau with Mycroft to buy books during the holidays. 

Soon, the silhouette of the castle appeared before them. They looked at the detective with disbelief. As Mycroft had said, it was not a medieval castle. But it was still a 15th-century three-story renovated building, from which emerged three turrets with grey roofs in the shape of an inverted cone. The guardhouse (a house of two hundred square meters and a hundred meters of a garden) left the stables to its right. The building was surrounded by a French garden, meadows, woods, and lands. 

Bill let out a whistle. 

"It must have more than 1500 square meters of living space". 

"Two thousand," replied Sherlock. 

"How did you find yourselves playing hide-and-seek?"

"Who says we played hide-and-seek?"

They stopped about two hundred meters from the castle, wrapped in the shadows. Sherlock pulled out his night vision binoculars from his rucksack and observed the place. 

"There is no movement. But they may already be inside. Help me clear the brush," he muttered ducking. 

The others followed his example, throwing bushes, earth, and stones away; a small drill bit appeared under his feet. 

"It's a passageway that leads to the castle's basement," explained Sherlock. 

With the help of Sholto and Bill, he lifted the bulky rock that covered it. 

"They built it in World War II too?" asked Bill. 

"No, according to legend, it was used by the castle's owners to go out unseen by the servants to meet their lovers, the stable boys, and maids. He with the stable boys and she with the maids," he ended, mockingly. 

He dropped into the hole, which was not very deep, followed by John, Sholto, Bill, Luke, Jonas, and Patrick. The tunnel was high and quite narrow, so only Sherlock walked easily through it. The others, especially John, moved carefully so as not to touch the walls with their shoulders. 

Soon the tunnel widened, and a few yards later, they found a metal grille door, embedded in a stone wall, that gave access to the castle. Sherlock approached it and ran his finger over the rocks on the wall around it. When he came to a completely square one, he pushed it in. A small click was heard, and the detective pushed the door open. 

They entered a large stone room, completely dark except for a few cracks between the stones that formed the room's roof. Cubicles surrounded it with grids, and, in the centre, a small iron door in the shape of an arch gave access to the castle.

"Nothing more pleasant than a good dungeon to start the day," Bill mused. 

Sherlock opened one of the cells and pulled out a large drawer that was in it. He opened it and started throwing guns and automatic rifles at Sholto and the others. He stopped when he reached John. 

"I can shoot with my left hand better than you can with both," he grunted, extending it. 

Sherlock threw a shotgun at him, and he grabbed it. Using the sling, he opened it to check the magazine and closed it with a sharp blow. 

They slowly climbed the narrow spiral staircase from the dungeon to one of the basements. John took the lead and waved to the others, which soon spread out across the various rooms of the place, guns blazing, to keep going up afterwards. 

They moved to another room where the surveillance system was set, with cameras that allowed them to see what was happening in each castle's room. 

Through the one installed in the garden, they watched an elegant van stopping at the entrance, from which the impeccably dressed homeless, Mycroft, and Lestrade descended. As soon as they saw the latter two appear on the screen, Sherlock smirked. 

"What?"

"Mummy's going to be mad with joy. She can finally organize the wedding of her dreams." 

John chuckled. He didn't need to ask what that wedding was like. Shortly before the two of them got married, he witnessed the many arguments between the detective and his mother. She argued that they could not leave anyone off the wedding list of over five hundred names she had prepared, and Sherlock assuring he will set fire to the ceremony's place if one more person appeared from the little more than fifty that he and John invited. Mrs. Holmes even threatened not to go to the wedding. In the end, she gave in and went, mumbling to herself where her son would have got that stubbornness, for her husband and Mycroft's amusement. 

Mycroft led the others into a large room on the first floor that had been their playroom when they were children, which now was filled by several big boots. He opened them, distributing the casual clothes and gubs they contained. 

"Where did all this come from?" Lestrade asked, "I thought you couldn't count on Anthea." 

"No, but I can count on the contacts we have in France. And don't ask," he concluded, reading the question in the DI's eyes. He grabbed a piece of paper from the bottom of one of the boots, took a look at it, and put it in his pocket.

They changed in new clothes and stood at the entrance, waiting for the mercenaries and Mike to arrive, while Sherlock and the others watched the main entrance from the cameras. 

A quarter of an hour later, they heard footsteps, and the homeless group appeared in the basement. 

"Mycroft says we can get some rest," Mark announced. "He intercepted a message from the airport. The two scheduled flights are going to be delayed". 

The others nodded. Sherlock looked at him, worried. 

"Where is he? And Lestrade?"

"He stayed upstairs. Lestrade was coming down with us, but at the last moment, he decided to go back with him". 

"Shit!" grunted the detective as he headed for the door. 

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Mycroft has never told anyone in his life to take a break," the detective shouted, disappearing through one of the dungeon entrances. 

They all stared in that direction, surprised, and then at John, who pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying not to explode. 

"Bill, remind me why I married him." 

Bill snorted. 

"Because he gets on your nerves. And you love that". 

John chuckled and ran into the tunnel where Sherlock had disappeared, followed by the others. 

********

Sherlock went two by two up the stairs leading to the main floor. He took out his mobile phone and cursed through his teeth. No signal. He ran even faster. On the last flight of stairs, he spotted Lestrade, who was going to find Mycroft. 

The detective grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back hard, causing both of them to wobble dangerously on the stairs.

"Fuck, Sherlock! You scared the shit out of me!"

"Where's Mycroft?"

"He said he wanted to have a look at the back yard before going meeting us in the basement." 

Sherlock gave him his phone.

"Go out that corridor," he pointed to an opening to the right of the passageway, a few steps down. "As soon as you get signal, send this text." 

"But... what about Mycroft?"

"I will look for him. Send the message. Whatever happens, don't stop sending it. Rosie's life depends on it". 

Lestrade gulped and nodded, quickly disappearing down the stairs. Sherlock kept climbing upstairs and peeked into the main hall. Clear and silent. His uneasiness grew. He looked around and crossed over to the door leading to the back yard running faster down the corridor. He pushed hard on the barred door leading to the courtyard in the middle of which he saw his brother standing with his back to him. 

"Mycroft!" he called.

The elder Holmes did not attempt to turn towards him. Sherlock noticed he was trembling, his eyes fixed on one of the side entrances to the enclosure. Sherlock followed his gaze, and the blood froze in his veins. 

*****

Lestrade ran at full speed down the narrow uphill corridor where Sherlock sent him down. He checked the signal from time to time, but the castle's thick walls and the depths prevented it from getting the signal. 

He reached a narrow spiral staircase and climbed it in pairs. He must have got one of the turrets. He finally reached the end and entered a square room with small windows that barely let in any light. It was stifling hot, and the air was quite thin. 

Lestrade paused for a few moments, breathlessly, trying to get some air. He picked up the phone and sighed with relief at the sight of the smallest of the cover bars in green. Very weak, but it would do. He waved his thumb to press the send button. 

"Throw the phone away," someone snarled at his back.

Lestrade got petrified. A group of mercenaries materialized in front of him, dressed in black, their faces hidden with balaclavas. 

"Raise your hands and put down the phone." 

Lestrade gulped and raised his hands slowly. When he held them up, he closed his eyes and pressed the send button. Saving Rosie was much more critical than being shot. 

The man pointed the gun at him.

"Move, and you will be dead before pulling the trigger." 

John's menacing grunt relieved him. After the five mercenaries, John, Bill, Sholto, the rest of the soldiers, and the homeless appeared. 

"Drop your weapons," ordered Bill. 

They did not move. 

"Are you deaf?" shouted John. "Drop your fucking weapons!"

"John? John Three Continents Watson?" asked one of them, incredulously. 

John and the others looked at each other, puzzled. 

"Do you know me?"

"Afghanistan. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I served under you." 

John narrowed his eyes and then opened them wide, as did the other ex-soldiers. 

"Mike? Mike Nolan?"

The man nodded. He raised his hands and turned around slowly. Luke walked over and pulled down the cloth covering his face, getting a shocked cry from the soldiers who could not believe it. There, in front of them, was Mike. 

"Tell them to put down their weapons," John ordered. 

"Put down your weapons," ordered Mike to his men. They looked at him suspiciously. "Put the guns down! The Captain will shoot us, even having a fucking arm in a sling".

They dropped their weapons on the ground and raised their hands slowly. Lestrade put them down, not entirely understanding what was happening. A shocked silence fell over the place. 

At that moment, Sherlock's phone vibrated with a message. John looked at it, surprised. Sherlock never left his phone unless it was crucial. He approached the DI, tore the phone out of his hand, and checked the message. 

"They are surrounding Irene's mansion. She will put Rosie the dungarees " Anthea's choked and worried voice filled the room. From her voice gasps and leaps, it was clear she was running at full speed. "I'm going to Baker Street." 

John looked at Lestrade, who had paled. 

"What the hell is this dungarees thing? What is happening with Rosie?"

The DI hesitated for a few moments, racking his brain to find a convincing explanation. But lying to John no longer made sense. 

"Rosie is in danger," he blurted out. 

John felt that he was short of breath. He gave him an incendiary look. 

"What did you say?" growled in such a threatening tone that a chill ran down Lestrade's back. 

"They threatened Rosie. That is why Mycroft brought you here". 

John frowned. He didn't quite understand what the DI was talking about, but the thought that his daughter might be in danger filled him with anger and fear. 

"Sherlock took her to safety," he explained in a rash, trying to reassure him. 

John bowed his head, menacingly. 

"Sherlock knew about this?" hissed. "Sherlock knew it and didn't say anything to me?

"He found out yesterday when he spoke to Mycroft in the truck. He wanted to wait until you were a bit more recovered, and Rosie was out of danger to tell you". 

John closed his eyes, remembering a shaky Sherlock clinging to him last night. Now he understood why he was terrified. 

"Great. My daughter is being threatened, and Mycroft can't think of anything better than to leave her there ALONE?! 

John's scream bounced off the walls, startling him, the mercenaries, and even Sholto and the others still used to the doctor's outbursts. 

"Your daughter?" Mike's voice sounded puzzled. "The London team was supposed to follow Mycroft Holmes' niece, not your daughter." 

John turned, facing him, a wild look in his eyes. 

"My daughter is Mycroft Holmes' niece," he said, stressing every syllable. 

Mike opened his eyes wide and swallowed. 

"Who followed my daughter?" the doctor asked again. 

The mercenary pressed his lips firmly and did not answer. A flash of fear went through his eyes. John realized it was not for him, but for the consequences of betraying whoever hired him. 

The doctor came closer to him so that his face was inches away from the mercenary's. 

"Look, Mike, I have been mourning you for ten years. But I swear to God I will kill you right now with my own hands if you don't tell me who threatened Rosie and what the hell is going on". 

Mike looked at the other mercenaries, nervous. He still couldn't believe that John was really there, the same John Watson he had fallen in love with in Afghanistan, with whom he had shared everything until that damn ambush blew everything up. The same one of whom, ten years later, still had a photograph in his pocket, to not forget him. 

He lowered his head. 

"Clay, John Clay." He muttered, defeated.

"What's it got to do with Mycroft? Why did he threaten my daughter?

"I don't know, I swear it." 

John turned to Lestrade.

"Ring any bells?"

The DI shook his head. He never heard that name before. 

John dialled Anthea's number.

*****

Irene Adler helped Rosie to wear bib jeans with a bee drawn on them. Under the bee, the dungarees had a tracking device attached to them that would allow Sherlock to locate the girl wherever she was. She did so quickly, but carefully, while the girl watched with her eyes wide open the security personnel' runs to position themselves around the door and defend the mansion. 

The Woman knelt to catch up with her and placed a rebellious blonder curl behind her ear. 

"Remember what I told you about your parents looking for a long lost friend of your Daddy's, and about the people who don't want them to find him?

The girl nodded, worrying her lower lip. 

"Well, some of those people want to come in here" the girl looked at her, scared. "That's why you must do everything I tell you, don't make any noise, and don't leave my side, no matter what." 

Rosie nodded, the scare giving way to a determined gesture. She took Irene's hand, and she squeezed it lovingly to give her courage, surprised by the girl's bravery, trying to stay calm, even being frightened by the gunfire sounds. 

Irene looked at the monitor collecting the image from the security cameras outside. Several black cars and vans had parked in front of the house, and several men with battering rams were preparing to break down the door. The rest, armed and barricaded behind the cars, responded to fire from their security team's weapons. She opened a drawer, picked up a gun, opened the magazine to make sure it was loaded, and run, holding Rosie's hand. 

They both disappeared down the corridor leading to the dungeons. She entered the last one and bent down under the BDSM table, in front of the metal frame that held it. She moved a sliding panel and waved Rosie into the gap. 

"You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"

Irene smiled, tenderly caressing her cheek. 

"Never, sweetheart. Don't worry. As long as I am here, nothing will happen to you".

The girl smiled, reassured, and stepped into the gap. Irene came in later, almost crawling into a squat. She held tightly to the gun and closed the panel. 

As she did so, an opening opened up on the floor, from which several steps started. Rosie went down them quickly, followed by the dominatrix, entering a small room barely one square meter in size. She brought her eye close to an iris reader, and a door opened with a click, giving them access to her panic room. They entered, and the door closed behind them with a buzz. 

She sat down on the floor and hugged Rosie, trying to smile and demonstrate a calm that she was far from feeling. The girl, now calmer, looked her for a few seconds.

"Don't be afraid, Aunt Irene. My parents will save us". 

Irene chuckled and kissed her on the head, hugging her. 

******

" _Got the bib_."

Anthea froze, reading Sherlock's text message. She was a couple of blocks from Baker Street, about to reach the scaffolding to climb up to the floor. She knew it meant she should warn Irene they were going after Rosie. She was texting when she received another one in the same urgent tone: 

" _They are here. I'll get the bib. AI_ ". 

For a few moments, her brain didn't respond until, with a trembling hand, she dialled Sherlock's number and left a message. Then she phoned Donovan. 

"Are you with Mrs. Hudson?" 

"Yes, why?"

"Get on the B right away. We will soon have company", she answered hastily. Donovan hummed, understanding what she meant, and hung up. 

She climbed up the scaffolding in a hurry, leapt between the buildings, and rolled across the 221's roof to the trapdoor, where she quickly descended. In the lounge, Donovan, leaning against the window, gun in hand, peered out without being seen, while Molly and Mrs. Hudson stacked the furniture to form barricades to protect themselves from the shots. 

Her phone buzzed again. 

"Tell me, Sherlock," she said. 

"It's John." 

Anthea was out of breath at the doctor's angry greeting. People used to be afraid of Sherlock, but she knew that the doctor was much more dangerous, with all his affable air. She knew this the day Mycroft ordered her to pick him up and take him to that deserted warehouse. Most people trembled at Mycroft Holmes' scrutinizing gaze and threatening air, but the doctor did not. Ignoring him as he checked his phone, getting angry with him, showing him that he was not afraid of him at all. He even allowed himself the boldness of saying, " _you don't seem very frightening_ " to someone who was used to the mere mention of his name made people's hair stand on end. 

"Who is John Clay?" bellowed the doctor to the phone. 

Craig jumped in his chair and turned to look at Anthea, who had paled. 

"No one," she replied, almost in a whisper, exchanging a frightened look with a nervous Craig. 

"Don't fuck with me, Anthea. Who the hell is John Clay?" growled John again. 

"Nobody. He's nobody," repeated Mycroft's assistant, unable to hide the tremor in her voice, "John Clay is dead." 

"Are you sure?"

She nodded firmly. 

"John Clay is dead, Doctor Watson," she repeated, "Mycroft shot him." 

A shocked silence came from the other side. 

"Mycroft shot him? Why?"

"Because he killed his fiancé".


	9. Thirty minutes

John closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to assimilate what Anthea just said. He looked sideways at Lestrade, who was petrified. 

"His, his fiancé?" finally asked the DI, almost in a whisper.

They almost could hear Anthea grimacing at the other side of the line. 

"Greg… I'm sorry you have to learn about Anthony like this. I know Mycroft wanted to tell you, but this is… very difficult for him. It was a tough time for him". 

"Could you explain a bit more?" asked the doctor. 

"John Clay and Anthony started working for Mycroft at the same time. The first one as a member of the MI6 reporting directly to him and Anthony as his assistant".

"Mycroft fell in love with his assistant?" the two asked in unison. 

"Yes. Boringly predictable, as Sherlock used to say. But he liked Anthony. He was a good man, loyal, and was in tune with Mycroft from the very beginning. He even could keep up with his brain, and Anthony loved Mycroft's intelligence, powers of deduction… and well, so many hours working together and..., they fell in love".

"And Clay?"

"He was effective and smart and fulfilled almost every mission Mycroft order him. Friendly, solicitous, but too ambitious. He was dazzled by Mycroft, admired him, and imitated him in everything. Anthony didn't like him too much, Sherlock directly hated him, but Mycroft trusted him. He taught him everything he knew, and many people started to see him as his successor. But this changed two days after Mycroft got engaged to Anthony when he had a car accident. The car was completely wrecked, but, thanks to the armour plating, Mycroft only broke one arm. The next day, Clay filed a complaint against Anthony for Mycroft's attempted murder. Then Sherlock started to investigate".

"Sherlock?"

Anthea nodded to the phone. 

"Sherlock knew that Mycroft's accident had not been such moreover when it was not the first accident a member of Mycroft's office suffered. Sherlock was certain that Anthony was not responsible. He knew Anthony truly loved Mycroft. Investigating it, he discovered Clay was impersonating Mycroft, ordering operations that he would never authorise, diverting funds to offshore accounts. He threatened, blackmailed…, he had no scruples about getting what he wanted, - very ugly business that could have ended Mycroft's career. And the day that happened, Clay would take his place, and he knew it. As I said, Clay had all Mycroft's means and knowledge at his disposal, and somehow he found what Sherlock discovered". 

"What happened?"

Anthea's tone got deeper. 

"Clay went after him. Sherlock realised it and handed over a USB drive where he gathered all the evidence to one of his homeless so that he could give it to Mycroft. Minutes later, several of Clay's men kidnapped him, beat him brutally and left him for dead in an abandoned warehouse". 

Anthea sighed sadly. 

"But the homeless, instead of Mycroft, gave Anthony the pen. He, after watching its content, went out in search of Clay without warning Mycroft, because he was still recovering from the accident.

But you know the Holmes. He deduced something was wrong and left after in search of his fiancé. He found him in an alleyway, dying. Clay shot him when Anthony threatened to expose him. Anthony died in Mycroft's arms, waiting for the ambulance. Broken, Mycroft found Clay and killed him. Sherlock managed to survive after a month and a half in the ICU". 

There was a heavy silence after Anthea's last word.

"Maybe Clay didn't die," doubted Lestrade, broking it. 

"Mycroft shot him in the head. And he was dead. I know because I helped Mycroft bury the body. I was Anthony's assistant at the time. But, if he has somehow managed to come back from death, you should be very careful. He is like a Mycroft's evil version. And he controls everything."

"Can you send me a picture of him?" John asked. 

"Sending" answered Anthea.

He moved next to Mike and showed it to him. The mercenary nodded. 

"It's him". 

"Fuck" the doctor mumbled and rushed to the same place where Sherlock had disappeared shortly before. 

********

Eight armed men surrounded Mycroft and Sherlock. From the shadows of the door, a short, strong, redheaded man with a white scar on his forehead appeared. He wore a smug, cold, dismissive smile, framed by very thin, almost non-existent lips. He walked around them, slowly, watching Mycroft from top to bottom. 

"How are you doing, boss?"

Mycroft ran out of breath when he recognised the man, memories, guilt and grief, striking him with the force of a heavy truck. 

Sherlock's lips quivered with fury, and he made a gesture to throw himself at Clay. 

"Hey, hey, hey, calm down, big boy" he warned, while one of his men drew a gun and pointed it at Mycroft's head. Sherlock stood still, and four men held him down. 

"I killed you myself." whispered a horrified Mycroft, his eyes dazed, lost it his memories. 

The image of Clay opened the door to all the pain caused by Anthony's death, a pain he struggled to keep in a dark corner. He couldn't face it. He couldn't talk about it. His parents advised him to see a therapist, but he couldn't. The pain, the loss, the grief, the guilt for haven't been able to save him… they were so intense, so unbearable that he was sure, if he tried to face them, they would split him into pieces. 

So he decided to protect himself for suffering again, for losing again, even prohibited everyone from talking about Anthony. He was shattered. The only consolation he had left from all this was the knowledge that he had avenged Anthony's death. And now, seeing Clay, all those feelings exploded inside him, so intense that the pain became physical. 

"No. But don't feel bad. You were so sad after your poor Anthony died …" he said in a hateful mellifluous voice". 

"How...?"

"You really don't know? The great Mycroft Holmes doesn't know?" He let out a cold, evil, mocking laugh. "What a great truth it is that when the student is ready, he beats his master." 

"You didn't bury him," murmured Sherlock, sounding staggered by his own sudden deduction. 

Mycroft turned to him, shocked. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, here we have the meddlesome know-it-all of Sherlock again. But yes. You are right. You shot me but didn't bury me. So, the question is, who did you bury in my place? 

"Vincent Spaulding" Mycroft mused as if in a dream.

"Who?" his brother asked. 

"Vincent Spaulding. Anthony kept repeating his name over and over while he was dying. I thought he was delirious because he was saying they… they were two Clays or something similar…" he opened his eyes as he realised what it meant "you created your own doppelganger". 

Clay clapped slowly. 

"Yes. An exact double, thanks to the miracles of modern surgery. You can modify whatever trait you want. Pick someone who looks like you, give them a few tweaks and voila, you have got your alter ego running around, easily fooling Mycroft Holmes's colleges". 

Mycroft pursed his lips in contempt. 

"That's why when they accused you of conducting unauthorised operations, complaints failed to prosper". 

Clay nodded, smiling as if he found it extremely amusing.

"And it was YOU who provided me with the perfect alibi. I was with you, so I couldn't be there, organising those operations. No one can be at two places at the same time, can't they? Until you became one more obstacle to get rid of". 

Mycroft closed his eyes, remembering his colleagues and subordinates who, at that time, suffered "accidents" similar to his, but with much more severe consequences, or were accused of carrying out non-authorised operations. They were investigated, but no one ever found the culprit. And those who claimed it was Clay who organised them, had no way of proving it. 

"You killed innocent people" he sneered in contempt. 

"I cleared my way. I followed your example". 

"For me, the end never justified the means". 

"Because you are too pusillanimous. And too proud. You, who presume to see everything, didn't notice anything. And when you did, it was too late. You failed to save Anthony". 

The elder Holmes lowered his head, a familiar guilty creeping inside him, curling around his throat and chest, preventing him from breathing, threatening to suffocate him, again. 

"Don't listen to him, Mycroft" advised Sherlock, distressed. 

It hurt him immensely how Clay's words cracked his older brother up inside, managing to devastate him again, like after Anthony's death. 

"What is a drop?" Clay asked theatrically, ignoring him, walking in a circle around the courtyard as if it were a stage, opening his arms while declaiming "Nothing. No one notices it. But a drop falling again and again and again can pierce the rock. And I am the drop that will destroy you, Mycroft Holmes. This time I will break you into such small pieces that you will never be able to get back together".

The elder Holmes shook his head. 

"You don't stand a chance. I will prove that it was you who organised all this, that you were the author of the deaths, that...". 

"No, no, you don't understand. It is you who are going to confess that you were the author of all these extortions, deaths, embezzlement and whatever other charges against me..."

"I won't stop until ...."

"Mycroft will never do that," spat Sherlock with contempt. 

Clay smiled mockingly.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, haven't you learned to shut your big mouth yet?" he chanted, approaching him. "You always were such an unbearable busybody... I know you never liked me. But, so that you can see that I don't hold a grudge against you, I brought you a souvenir" he said, smiling cruelly. 

At his signal, the group of mercenaries opened up and made way for a tall, huge and strong man that limped slowly toward them. Sherlock opened his eyes in fear realising he was his torturer in Serbia. His arms, neck and face were disfigured by a multitude of scars from cuts, burns and blows and his right eye was covered by a patch. 

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, struggling with all his strength to get rid of the men who held him. To a Clay sign, they dragged him under the arcades surrounding the courtyard, followed by the Serbian, who limped behind them, his only eye fixed in Sherlock, shining with of hate, anger and cruelty.

"Clay, don't hurt him," begged Mycroft in desperation, watching as they ripped Sherlock's his shirt off, tied at the wrists and then hung from a hook stuck in the centre of one of the arches, feet several inches off the ground.

He gasped, terrified, when, while advancing towards Sherlock, the Serb produced a stick with sharp metal spikes at the end. 

"I will call the press conference. I will sign everything you want!" Mycroft shouted in desperation, raising his hands for the first time, shaking notoriously "please "he almost sobbed, his voice filled with fear. 

"Mycroft, no!" mused Sherlock, guessing his intentions, kicking the men around him and frantically trying to untie himself, his eyes fixed on the stick.

"Please" begged again a terrified and almost tearful Mycroft. 

He knew the man pointing him would relax the pressure of the gun in his head if he thought Mycroft was scared. When it happened, with one swift movement, Mycroft spun on himself, grabbed off the hand holding the gun, twisting the man's arm as he elbowed him hard in the stomach, while, with a quick and robust stroke, he broke the man's arm. He howled in pain, and Mycroft grabbed the gun. Panting, he held it firmly and pointed it at a surprised Clay.

"Release him!" he ordered. 

Sherlock let out the air he had been holding in. He trusted his brother's fighting skills, but he hadn't used them in a long time. The men around him and the Serb stood still, undecided, looking at Clay who, after the moment of bewilderment, smiled wolfishly. 

Mycroft removed the safety catch. 

"Shoot me. Kill me. The moment you do that, the beautiful little girl you both worked so hard to protect will blow away. And you know I'm not bluffing, boss" he spat the last word scornfully.

Mycroft cursed to himself. Ironically, it had been he, when Clay was at his command, who taught him to foresee all the unexpected, to have alternative plans in case something didn't go as planned. And Clay did it thoroughly, crawling and infiltrating himself everywhere without any of them noticing. He could read in Clay's crazed look that he wouldn't flinch when it came to carrying out his threat. 

Defeated, Mycroft lowered his hand and dropped the gun to the ground. 

Clay gestured to the Serbian. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes, trying to withdraw to his Mind Palace, to block the pain, as he did when he was tortured in Serbia. But everything that happened since John's disappearance, plus the memories that Clay's back stirred up, left him emotionally exhausted, and he couldn't manage to slip inside. 

Instead, his mind flew twelve years before and saw again a sunken Mycroft, unable to overcome Anthony's death, the first and only person he loved before Lestrade. Anthony was, as John for him, the first to pierce Mycroft's heart armour, thicker even than Sherlock's, the first to be able to see the real man behind the character, the heart behind mask. 

Broken and devastated, his brother became cold and distant ( _caring is not an advantage; love is a chemical defect_ ) and got obsessed with control and Sherlock's security. 

The only thing he kept from that time was the wedding ring he and Anthony bought together during their wedding preparations, a few days before his fiancé's death, the only memory of a time he was truly happy. To the few people who dared to ask him, he said it was a family inheritance, ending the subject. 

He only took it off when he started to coincide with Lestrade in the crime scenes. 

His torturer approached him brandishing the baton. 

"See this?" he hissed in Serbian through his clenched teeth, gesturing to his face "this is what they did to me when they found out you slipped away. Now I will return the favour". 

A car entered in the courtyard and two men pushed Mycroft towards it, who turned to look at Sherlock, despair, sadness and impotence filling his eyes. 

"Save Rosie and John" mouthed Sherlock before Mycroft disappeared in the car, along with the rest of the men. 

Then closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

The Serbian raised his arm holding the stick. Clay licked his lips in the lust of blood. 

"Kill him" he barked, getting in the car, which moved away. 

The Serbian lowered his arm, hitting Sherlock's back with the baton with all his might. 

********

At Baker Street, Sally drew her gun, watching as several black cars and vans stopped on both sides of the door between heavy braking and a couple of dozen armed men got ready to storm the flat. 

She took out her phone and dialled 

"Dimmock!" she shouted, "I need reinforcements, as many as possible. Come to Baker Street! Now!" 

He turned to Anthea.

"Bring John's gun," she ordered, "until Dimmock come, we will try to hold them, of, though there is little we can do with just two guns". 

She noticed the look that Mrs Hudson and Anthea exchanged. 

"What?"

"Your drug bust will never be the same again," said Mycroft's assistant as she walked to the fireplace and crawled inside. 

Donovan gawked at her, shaking his head in astonishment and annoyance. 

"Bloody Holmes..."

"The best were those days when Sherlock placed the jar full of eyeballs on the kitchen table, all of them looking at the fireplace, and waited to see if you caught the clue" replied Mrs Hudson, amused, winkling to a gaping Molly. The echo of Anthea's laughter sounded inside the fireplace tube. 

Donovan crawled under the fireplace next to her. She tensed up a bit, feeling the warmth of the other woman's body in that narrow space. Mycroft's assistant smiled shyly and pushed a brick from one side, which sank with a snap, and slid a fake brick panel on the opposite side up, giving way to a cavity that held several semiautomatic rifles and machine pistols. 

"My husband built it to hide the black money from the drug," explained Mrs Hudson, "I searched the entire floor for months without finding it. The same day Sherlock came to see it, a couple of days before meeting John and moving here, he found it and gave the money it to me. At first, he used it to hid drugs, but soon he stopped. With John, he didn't need them." She shook his head, sad. "It was when John got married Mary and left Baker Street that he started using it again to hide them".

"And he had the guns?" Donovan asked, quickly stepping out of the chimney. She shook the soot off her trousers as she tried to regain control of herself, blushing and bewildered. 

"No, I brought them the day Craig and I came here," Anthea replied, giving her an automatic rifle, avoiding looking at her.

Mrs Hudson extended a hand. 

"Martha..." began Anthea. 

"Dear, my husband ran a drug cartel. How do you think I managed to survive? By swearing?" 

Molly shook her head, amused. The landlady would never cease to amaze them. h

"I don't know how to shoot, but I want to help," she said. 

"It's easy" replied the landlady, taking an automatic rifle, removing the cartridge clip to see if it was loaded, putting it back in place with a sharp tap and giving it to an amazed Molly.

"Shoot anything dressed in black. Nothing is more frightening than an inexperienced gunman or gunwoman in this case. You never know where they are aiming".

"Yes, but be careful when Dimmock and the others arrive," warned Sally, breaking the window glass and starting to shoot with one of the assault rifles she had taken from the fireplace, then hiding behind the barricade of furniture that Molly and Mrs Hudson had made. 

Anthea bent down beside her and Donovan felt her heart racing, without truly understanding what was happening to her. They looked at each other, nodded, and turned to the windows to keep shooting. At the same time, Mrs Hudson and Molly did so in the other, the second closing her eyes every time she pulled the trigger, always finding a target in her erratic firing, the first one shooting man after man who was trying to get closer to the door. 

******

Irene watched with concern on her mobile phone the image from the cameras outside the building. Men in black cars kept arriving, already outnumbering her security personnel. It would not be long before they overtook them and entered the house. She was sure the panic room was well hidden, and the armour was not easy to break.

But that did not mean that, if no reinforcements came, they would not be able to find them. And from her past relationship with Moriarty, she knew that whoever led that attack would have no scruples about kidnapping a little girl or even killing her. Yet she was willing to give her life to prevent it, if necessary. 

Rosie was reading or at least pretending to do it, sitting between Irene's crossed legs, her legs folded against her body, resting her back against the woman's chest. She seemed calm, but she furtively looked Irene, so the dominatrix tried to keep her face as impenetrable as she could, something truly complicated next to Sherlock's daughter.

Suddenly, everything fell silent. Disconcerted, Irene watched how the attackers halted the attack, returned to their cars and abandoned the building; in the distance, they listen to police sirens approaching. She doubted that this was what had caused them to retreat and leave their mansion.

But if it was not the police, what was it then? 

****** 

An agonic yell of pain echoed through the castle, and then other, and other. 

"Sherlock," shouted John, stopping at a narrow window overlooking the inner courtyard. Sholto, Lestrade and Bill approached him. The yard was deserted, except for Sherlock and his torturer. 

"Son of a bitch," Bill muttered, looking at the weapon the Serb was using to beat Sherlock, the spikes covered with the detective's blood. He was gasping for air, his face contorted with pain, hanging limply from the wrists. The man beat him again, making Sherlock yell.

"Where is Mycroft?" whispered Lestrade. 

When he received no response, he turned to John. 

"What the hell?" he muttered, realising the doctor vanished, looking at the others in disbelief. 

"And he complains about his husband," grunted Sholto. "Come on!" he ordered, running into the courtyard, followed by the rest. 

The Serbian raised his arm again to beat Sherlock. That damned detective endured the pain better than any of those he had tortured before, as he knew from Serbia. But that time, his brother was not there to save him. 

As he lowered his arm to deliver another blow, a strong hand grabbed his wrist, preventing him from moving it. He frowned in surprise. His gaze followed the arm that accompanied the hand and smiled triumphantly with contempt, when he saw before him a short, furious blond man with a sling, pouring fire out of his eyes. 

John smiled to himself. He had seen that same look all his life: when he fought on the street as a child, when he played rugby in High school or College, in Afghanistan or when he chased criminals with Sherlock. People often mistook height with strength and didn't expect a brutal attack from the short blond man. He was so used to it that he had managed to turn it into an advantage, even more so with his medical knowledge, which allowed him to know where the most painful or fragile points of nerves and joints were. 

An advantage that the Serbian realised too late when his smile faded as he noticed a very intense pain caused by the pressure of two of the man's fingers on the back of his hand, while with a quick movement he turned his wrist outward, breaking it.

The man yelled in pain and tried to punch John with his other hand, but the doctor easily dodged it. With a strong hook, John threw him to the ground, and then, with his healthy arm, punched him hard in the face.

The Serbian extended one arm, grabbing the doctor's throat. He had enough strength to strangle him easily. But the demon went crazy and hit him in the elbow. The Serbian shouted again, feeling his nerves torn from his joint, while a new rain of blows fell on him. 

He patted the ground next to him, looking for the stick. When he found it, he lifted it into the air, to hit John. When the bullet passed through his brain, he dropped it. 

John threw the gun he had hidden in his sling to the ground, got up and panting, approached a trembling Sherlock, gazing in horror his back full of blows, punctures and blood, new scars that would join those already caused by that bastard a couple of years ago. 

"I knew you were coming," muttered the detective, almost inaudibly. 

John chuckled sadly, caressing him. 

"Help me untie him," he asked Sholto and Lestrade, the first to approach him on the run followed by the others. 

They released a shaky and almost unconscious Sherlock, and they carefully lay him on his side on one of the stone benches in the courtyard. John took his pulse while Bill put his hand on his forehead. 

"He's going into shock" muttered John. 

Bill nodded. 

"Calm down, love, the ambulance will be here soon," said John softly, caressing his hair the way he knew it would relax him. 

He turned to the rest. 

"Find something to keep him warm, a blanket, whatever!" John ordered, and Rob y Patrick flew to the castle. He took out his shirt and pressed it on Sherlock's back to control the bleeding "Sholto, call an ambulance! We need to get him to a hospital! "he examined Sherlock's injuries "Fortunately, that bugger didn't go through the marrow".

The detective grabbed John's arm weakly, trying to draw him towards him. The doctor put his ear to the detective's mouth. 

"Rosie" he mumbled, breathing heavily "… a bomb… Irene's". 

John felt a whiplash of pain running through his leg, his psychosomatic limp reappearing under the shock of the words that had just come out of Sherlock's mouth, as he stared at him. 

"I swear to god I will rip out that bastard's heart with my own hands" he growled. 

With a trembling hand due to fear and anger, he began to dial Irene's number, but before he finished, Sherlock weakly tried to take his hand off the keyboard, intendedly looking at Mike. 

John frowned followed the detective's gaze and realised what he meant. 

"Where's the trick, Mike?" he asked. "Will the bomb explode when Irene picks up the phone? Or when the front door opens?"

The mercenary remained impassive, but the doctor noticed the small flash in his eyes, almost invisible, at the mention of the door. 

He shook his head, incredulous. 

"When you become a children murderer?" he asked, horrified, realising he put everyone in danger, Sherlock, Rosie, for a son of a bitch capable of playing with a child's life.

The mercenary didn't reply not daring to look into John's eyes. 

"Where's Mycroft?" asked Lestrade, 

"Signing confessions" answered the mercenary. 

Sherlock groaned in pain. John approached him, grabbed his hand and caressed his cheek, trying to calm him. But he knew that if his husband was not treated soon, he could die.

He put Sherlock's phone in Lestrade's hand, and the DI looked at him, puzzled. 

"Call Anthea," he ordered.

**************

Anthea, Donovan, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Craig looked at each other, puzzled, when the men stopped shooting, retreated, got into their cars and drove off at full speed. 

"What the hell?" Donovan asked amidst the din of the police sirens approaching. So the barricades had been lifted as well. That didn't make sense unless it was an order, but from who?

"Tell me, John" Anthea answered as soon as he felt the phone vibrating, without waiting for it to start ringing. 

"It's… it's Lestrade". 

The assistant couldn't help but smile at the DI's hesitation, but she also noticed the panic in his voice. 

"Just tell me what you need, Greg".

"Where is Rosie?"

Anthea looked at one of Craig's screens, where flickered a green light. 

"In Irene's panic room. She is all right. I think they can come out now. She and we were being attacked, but they have..."

"NO! Tell them not to move!" Lestrade's shout startled not only Anthea but all the occupants of Baker Street. "Donovan is with you?"

"I'm here, Lestrade" replied the sergeant. 

"Call a bomb squad to go to Irene's house. But don't let them in until we arrive. They only just have to be ready to act, that's all". 

"Bomb squad?" Donovan mused, horrified, as the rest gasped in fear. 

"Clay will hold a press conference, with Mycroft, I don't know where surely in London. Sherlock is badly hurt. We called the hospital, but could you speed it up?"

The woman nodded. Working with Mycroft, she was accustomed to assimilating a lot of information in a short time. 

"I'll try to delay the press conference without Clay noticing it" she replied, taking notes, the phone held between her shoulder and ear. Greg also listened to Donovan talking on his mobile in the background and someone typing quickly on computers. "The plane will be here in fifteen minutes".

"Could you make it five?"

"I'll do my best" she assured, dialling Irene's number. 

***

Eight minutes later, the Cessna landed near the castle, as they heard the ambulance sirens arriving. 

Sholto and the ex-soldiers have locked up rest of the mercenaries in one of the old dungeons of the castle, bound and gagged, waiting for the French police to enter and arrest them. They only left a handcuffed Mike with them. 

John checked Sherlock's pulse, worried. His heart rhythm was lowering; he was gasping for air, shaking for hypothermia. 

He was also madly worried about Rosie. The idea of his daughter in danger made him nauseating. He only could hope that witch of Irene would take care of her and calm her until he arrived. 

He didn't want either leave Sherlock alone, by that was something they discussed before. In case one of them had to choose between saving the other or Rosie, she would always be their priority, a choosing John always prayed not having to take. 

"I will stay with him" offered Bill, realising John's predicament. He noticed the doctor's hand tremor that only appeared when he was really anxious or worried, along with his psychosomatic limp—bloody bastard. "Go kill that fucker and save your daughter. I will take care of him".

"Thanks, Bill" muttered John, blinking to make disappear the tears of relieve and worry, watching how some paramedics jumped out from the ambulance, but Sherlock on a stretcher, given an intravenous line and an oxygen mask, and then put him into the ambulance. Bill jumped up next to him and waved his hand. One of the nurses closed the doors, and the vehicle sped off to the hospital.

John watched him leave with a heavy heart, remembering the ambulance ride out of Magnussen's office after Mary shot him, the second time he almost lost Sherlock. A chill ran down his back as they all got in the plane, Mark and Luke pushing Mike and forcing him to seat and the aircraft took off for London. 

"John" alerted Lestrade, taking him out of his thoughts pointing to one of the plane's screens, where several TV announced a special statement related with a government member.

"Do you think Anthea will be able to delay it?"

"I hope so". 

"Your turn", John said Mike "how do we defuse the bomb?"

"I don't know".

John turned to him, tilting his head with a threatening gesture. 

"Don't play with me, Mike. If I have to rip your skin off to get you to tell me I will don't have the slightest doubt about doing it". 

Mike looked at him, gulping. He knew him well enough to know that he would stop at nothing to save his daughter. 

"I don't know, I swear, I don't know it. He didn't tell us". 

"How could you do something like this? The Mike I knew was an honest man, with moral principles, who would have given his life before doing this". 

"It's been a long time coming, John. I'm not the man you knew anymore". 

"You can be sure of that". 

Lestrade stood up as the plane landed in London, twenty minutes later. 

"I'm going to get Mycroft". 

"We will come with you" the homeless offered themselves. 

John jumped from the plain with his ex-army mates and ran towards Irene's.

******

Clay paced impatiently around the lectern he placed in an abandoned warehouse. At first, he thought about letting Mycroft talk in front of hundreds of journalists, public and private press, radio and television, national and international..., but that way, he, Clay would be an easy target for any expert shooter. Mycroft was still too powerful. 

So he had set up a studio in the warehouse. He made Mycroft sign documents inculpating himself, of all the crimes Clay was charged with and then he would transmit the new to all media. But, for some reason, the signal wasn't working, and he wasn't ready to broadcast. 

He watched Mycroft. The elder Holmes regained his proud air. He ended his tie, stretched out his shirt cuffs, and waited patiently on his feet, hands on the lectern, to be given way, as if Clay were to announce the Christmas campaign instead of going to destroy him, along with Sherlock. Because, after that, the Holmes would be history.

He stomped on the floor, frustrated, what the hell was going on? The technicians only told him that they were trying to recover the signal. Fuck! Why none of them was able to fix a fucking antenna?

He looked at Mycroft, who raised an eyebrow, staring at him with contempt. Clay swore to himself in anger. When plotting that, he pictured in his mind a tearful Mycroft, on his knees, begging him for his life, his career, his status. But, once again, Mycroft was beyond him. 

"What the hell is going on?"

"Something's jamming the signal, sir." 

Clay approached Mycroft. 

"Tell them to stop." 

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

He turned to one of his men. 

"Set the timer to 30 minutes. I'm sure our dear Mycroft will get everything sorted out sooner" he laid a phone down. 

Mycroft sighed. He knew that blocking the signal was Anthea's ploy, probably with the help of those hackers that his brother liked so much and of whom he had had to cover his tracks more than once, to avoid further consequences. He phoned Anthea. 

*******

Irene was combing Rosie's hair in two braids. When Anthea called her, warning them not to go out of the panic room under any circumstances, she realised something was really wrong, something related to the men's departure. A trap. 

To keep the girl from worrying, she told her that they had to wait until NSY opened the door and proposed her to comb her hair in two braids. She squeaked in joy. Her parents were very willing, but the girl's hairstyles beyond her pigtails were not their strong suit, not even for Sherlock's dextrous violinist fingers. 

"Why do you hate Daddy?" asked Rosie, relaxing as Irene separated her blonde hair into locks. 

Irene stopped, the locks between her fingers, surprised. She cleared her throat. 

"I don't hate your Daddy."

"Yes, you try to get on his nerves every time you come home. Why do you do that?" 

"Didn't your parents tell you?"

Rosie shook her head. Irene bit her lower lip, thoughtfully. 

"Do you like any boy at school?"

"Eeeeeew no!"

The dominatrix chuckled. 

"Okay, your parents are going to let you adopt a puppy, right?" Rosie nodded, excited. She was looking forward to her birthday to do it. "So imagine you go to the kennel and you find the dog you've always wished: handsome, intelligent, sexy..."

"Sexy?" 

"Agile, I mean, agile." 

Rosie snorted at Irene's clumsy attempt. 

"In short, the dog you've always dreamed of finding. You call him, offer him food, toys, caress him…" 

"You caressed Papa?" the girl was amazed, knowing how reluctant her father was to make physical contact. 

Irene chuckled. 

"Only in a metaphorical way. The fact is that you do everything you can think of to attract the doggie to go with you, but he doesn't pay you attention". 

"Why?

"Because he fell in love with another master from the first time he saw him. Since then, he only dreams of that master telling him to go with him, even before he knows it himself. Because although the puppy is brilliant for many things, he is very idiot for others. The other master hasn't even noticed the devotion that the doggy you like has for him, but the dog doesn't care. He is happy just to be by his side. Until one day, after many adventures, the other master realises that he loves the puppy too, and takes the happy doggy with him. But you are left without him". 

Rosie blinked, pensive. 

"So you're jealous of Daddy". 

Irene looked at her, surprised and smiled at the child's clairvoyance. Jealous that was the word. When she asked John if he was jealous in that hangar, she did it because it was she who was dead jealous of the evident infatuation (for her, not for those two idiots) that the detective felt for the doctor and that, well she knew, Sherlock would never feel for her. But the doctor wasn't able to put two and two together. 

"But you can find yourself another puppy" advised Rosie. 

"Yes, but that puppy was unique. And you compare them all with him, knowing that you will never find another one like him". 

Rosie turned to look at her. 

"I'm sorry for you, Aunt Irene. But it's not Daddy's fault. You give him a hard time when you do that. And, although he doesn't say anything, I know Papa suffers, knowing that you give Daddy a hard time."

Irene looked at her in surprise. She never thought that his little game to make John angry and jealous could hurt him and Sherlock, And Rosie, which made her feel even worse.

"I promise I won't do it again, then. I am happy to see that the little dog is now delighted, having you and your Daddy". 

Rosie chuckled, Irene comparing Sherlock to a puppy sounded amusing.

"And you...?"

They both fell silent when a chronometer appeared in all the screens in the room and started counting down from thirty minutes to zero. 

*******

Lestrade stopped, panting, at a street intersection, not knowing which way to go. They went to Clay's old house, but they hadn't found anything, and in New Scotland Yard no one had any information that could be used as a clue. How on earth was he going to find Mycroft? In cases like this, he used to go to Sherlock. And though it was true that he was not the stupid one the detective sometimes painted, he was totally lost. 

He was hurt and disconcerted that Mycroft hadn't told him about Anthony, especially when he had asked him to marry him that very day Although he knew it wasn't due to a lack of trust, he couldn't feel a bit betrayed. And stupidly jealous. 

Although, if he thought about it, he had his logic. He had almost fallen out of bed on the first day he and Mycroft made love, when Mycroft confessed to him that he was not a virgin, but rather quite experienced, as Lestrade realised moments later. Knowing Mycroft's disdain to romantic relationships, he never thought that this was due to one of them, but rather to certain physical urgencies that Mycroft had not managed to sublimate with work as the detective did until he met John.

He also knew that if he hadn't told him, it was because he couldn't. Contrary to what most people thought, Mycroft and Sherlock's hearts were hypersensitive, delicate, and easy to break. That's why they hid them from the world, and it must have been difficult for him to get over it or at least try it.

He remembered his categorical refusal to attend John's wedding, alluding he had a lot of work when, in fact, he was killing himself exercising in his gym at home. Lestrade thought, like everyone else, that he was angry that the doctor was marrying Mary instead of his brother. He never thought he was trying to stop an old wound from reopening. 

His phone vibrated

"We know where he is" announced Anthea on the other end "I got a call from Mycroft and Craig located it. A car is arriving". 

The DI shook his head, shaded, seeing a black van parked next to them; they got in, and the driver set off for the harbour, where the warehouse was, hidden among hundreds of others. No one would pay attention to a few men entering it at night. 

********

John, Sholto and the rest of the ex-combatants, as well as Mike, stopped in front of Irene's mansion. The bomb squad, along with several patrol cars, were by the door, awaiting instructions. An officer came to him. 

"We have to go in," he urged. 

John shook his head. 

"We have to wait". 

"A countdown began. Twenty-five minutes to go," he reported, and John felt the ground beneath his feet opening.

******

Lestrade watched as Rob and Patrick approached two of the mercenaries guarding the warehouse door. They had dishevelled their clothes and dirtied their faces, becoming homeless again in a second. Staggering, they approached them with the excuse of asking for a cigarette. The mercenaries sent them off into the wind, not realising that Andrew and Jake were coming from behind. Each grabbed one of them by the neck, and in a second, they were dead on the ground. 

Rob knocked on the door. There was no answer. He walked around the outside of the warehouse, looking for one of the windows at ground level. They, thin and small, found it easy to slide in, but Lestrade would find it impossible. After a few minutes of anxious waiting, they finally opened one of the warehouse doors for him, and the DI, drawing his gun, slid down behind the other Holmes. 

There was a light on the top floor, and they heard voices. He recognised Mycroft's and another's man, saying something about fifteen minutes ago, and Mycroft responded. He noticed an unusual panic in his fiancé's voice. And it wasn't fake. 

Without making a sound, they approached the voices. She could see Mycroft, standing before a lectern, Clay less than halfway down. In front of them, one of the mercenaries held a camera, while another was messing around with what looked like a radio station. 

Without thinking twice, he signalled to the others, and all eight entered the warehouse, weapons in hand, shooting at the mercenaries, who fell to the ground. Lestrade approached Clay from behind and wrapped his arm around his neck, exerting pressure with his elbow. The man, who was smaller than him and much less strong, kicked and tried to grab Lestrade, but he pressed him even harder. 

"No, Gregory, let him go," shouted Mycroft. 

Lestrade looked at him puzzled, and Clay chuckled. 

"He just activated the bomb in Irene's house". 

"Tell me how to defuse it, or I'll blow you away" growled Lestrade, putting a gun to his temple. 

Clay cracked a laugh. 

"You can't defuse it if you don't know where it is". 

They exchanged a desperate look. 

********

The bombers just checked the main gate. There was no indication that it was connected to a bomb. But if Clay had a detonator and was watching them, he could set it off if he went inside. 

John was sick with worry. He had thought about going into the house alone, but if he made a fatal mistake, Rosie would die. Limping more and more, he kept going back and forth, yelling at the bomb squad to find a way into the house. 

They were running out of time. And his daughter's life with him. 

His phone vibrated. 

"Tell me, Greg." 

"We've got Clay". 

John almost fainted with relief. 

"Where's the bomb?" 

"He won't tell us." 

"Beat it out of him," he grunted. 

"It wouldn't do any good, Dr Watson," he heard Mycroft say. Greg had plugged in the speakerphone. "He is prepared to endure torture, and we have no time to lose". 

There was a maddening laugh from Clay. The bastard was enjoying it all. He heard Lestrade grunting something and the sound of a loud punch with a muffled groan from Clay and a new laugh. 

"If you kill me, she'll die," he said, "you didn't expect that, did you, boss? The student has outdone the teacher again" he chuckled again "You see, Doctor. Watson. My life in exchange for your daughter's." 

John clenched his teeth, furious. 

"Don't you dare compare your life with our daughter's, you fucking piece of shit" he growled murderously and Clay, on the other side of the phone, instinctively took a step backwards.

******

Mycroft observed Clay, desperately trying to deduce something that might help them. He could not understand how he had been so far ahead of them. It would have been more like Moriarty if he had not been dead. But it was clear that Clay's strategies were borrowed from criminal consulting. And he, Mycroft, had taught him everything he knew. As if he had formed a second Moriarty. 

But there was no way Clay could have known that Sherlock was going to take Rosie to Irene's house. Even he couldn't have foreseen that his brother would do that. Molly was predictable, but Irene...

And then he understood. 

"It's not the only bomb, is it?" 

Lestrade and the others turned to him in terror. The DI put a little more pressure on Clay's throat, then released. For the first time in his life, he felt like killing a man. He had done it in his job, but always in self-defence or to avoid a crime, but this guy had something dark and poisonous inside that raised his killing instincts.

Mycroft's former assistant smiled and bowed his head slightly in a mocking gesture of admiration. 

"Excellent, boss, excellent. But now you have two problems. Two bombs and neither one knows where they are. And time is running out for all of you. Tick, tick, tick, tick..." 

Mycroft watched him for a few moments. 

"Anthea?" he said. She and John were on an open line, so they could both hear them.

*******

"Tell me Mycroft" replied his assistant in Baker Street. She didn't like Mycroft's worried tone. 

"Go down to 221C. Carefully." 

The woman nodded and stood up. She looked at Donovan, Craig, Molly and Mrs Hudson, all of whom had the distressed paint on their faces. 

"Come on, dear, I'll let you in," said the landlady, and this time Anthea could hear a slight tremor in the woman's voice. She entered her flat, took the key, and both went down to 221C. She turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door. They went through the hall into the room with the fireplace. 

"Oh, My God!" muttered Anthea horrified. 

*********

At the French hospital, Bill and a nurse were struggling with Sherlock, trying to sedate him. The detective had been quiet while he was being given intravenous medication to stabilise his blood pressure, but when the nurse came to with a mixture of painkillers and sedatives, he slapped it out from her hands and ripped out his own IV, yelling Bill to call John.

The nurse looked at Bill, not knowing what to do. The pain must have been unbearable for the man, but he kept struggling with him to get to the phone. The blood loss and pain weakened him, but it was still not easy to keep him in bed. 

In the end, Bill called John desperate. 

"Is Sherlock all right?" was the first thing a worriedJohn asked, fearing the worst.

"Yes, but... there's no way to give him painkillers" breathed Bill "I'm sorry, I didn't want to worry you anymore, but if he doesn't calm down, he's going to go into shock again, and I don't know what to do anymore. He is yelling deductions to doctors and nurses, and they ran away in panic". 

John shook his head. Every time Sherlock walked through a hospital door, he became the staff's worst nightmare. 

"Okay, put him on". 

He heard Sherlock grunt at Bill, mumbling "fuck, it wasn't that hard", but before he could say anything, the detective was already talking. 

"John, is Mycroft with Clay?"

"Yes, Lestrade and the homeless have caught him, but he won't say where the bombs are, and we're running out of time". 

"Bombs?" gasped Sherlock.

John cursed to himself. The last Sherlock needed was knowing that. But he didn't ask anything else, so the doctor guessed he already deduced where the second one was.

"Call Mycroft or write to him. Tell him that Clay loved riddles." 

"Riddles?"

"You tell him." 

"Are you going to let him put the IV back?"

"Not until you've defused the bombs. When you speak to Mycroft, keep me in the loop".

John sighed in despair. He knew that there would be no way to change his mind.

"All right," he said. 

*********

Mycroft frowned at what John said. He was relieved to hear that Sherlock was okay. Not hearing from him made him fear the worst, although he wanted to strangle the detective for not letting himself be taken care of. 

But then he understood what Sherlock meant. He turned to Clay, who was still held by Lestrade, although he had stopped trying to let go. He raised his eyebrow, looking smugly at the man.

"Sherlock is right. You don't tell us where the bombs are because you know we would disable the code immediately."

"You couldn't do that," Clay replied. 

Mycroft smiled to himself. He took the bait. One of his employee's obsessions when working with him was to prove that he was smarter than him and Sherlock combined, which he never did, of course. True, he was an extremely clever man for the average, but a fool compared to the two of them. And also vain. He hated it when Mycroft recruited his brother for some mission that Clay couldn't compete with and Sherlock did it in a blink of an eye. 

"Prove it," replied Mycroft, as Lestrade looked at him, disconcerted, along with John and Sholto and the rest of the ex-soldiers in front of the mansion of Irene, Anthea, Donovan and Mrs Hudson in 221C. They were all in communication, and none of them understood the game Mycroft was playing. 

"The bomb is in a basement underneath the panic room. But you couldn't stop it". 

******

"You heard it.", said John to the bomb squad.

"It could be a trap," Sholto warned.

"I'm not going to stand here and wait for my daughter to jump to pieces". 

The Major nodded and shot the lock, hoping not to blow them all away. He opened it, and they entered the house, accompanied by a couple of bomb squad members. One of Irene's security team came out to meet them, clutching a gunshot-wounded arm.

"Take us to the basement under the panic room" ordered John in his captain's voice.

The man nodded. They walked quickly through the empty mansion, reached the dungeon where Irene and Rosie had slipped into the panic room, crossed it and opened a door hidden in the wall. They went down a narrow spiral staircase about ten metres and came to a small door, just over a metre high. The man took out a bunch of keys and opened it. 

He turned on a torch, and the beam of light went through the small room until it fell on a corner. 

"Jesus Christ," John muttered. 

"What's wrong?" asked Mycroft. 

Sitting on the bomb box, tied up to it, a boy of about thirteen was shivering with fear and cold. On his cheeks, dirty with dust, tears had left a couple of clean traces. He narrowed his eyes, dazzled by the torch, then opened them, frightened, at the sight of the men. 

He was sitting on a transparent box containing the bomb, the timer running backwards. They had less than eight minutes left. 

"Are you all right?" John asked in the most reassuring tone what he could. 

The boy looked at him without answering. 

"Don't worry. We are here to help you. Are you all right?"

A slight nod of his head. 

"What is it, John?" asked Lestrade. 

"We've found the bomb. A child is sitting on it," replied the doctor. 

"So are we", said Anthea to the phone "Sarah is sitting on it". 

There was silence across all the lines.

"Sa…. Rosie's friend?" babbled the doctor. 

"Yes. She's fine. Scared and cold, but she's fine". 

"God, but she's the same age as Rosie." 

"What's your name?" John asked the boy. 

"Michael". 

"Well, Michael, it's okay. We are here to help you".

John looked at the cables twisted to the boy's body, connected to the pump, distressed. 

Suddenly he saw himself, in that pool, the belt of explosives around his body, Sherlock gun in hand, the lasers of the snipers in his head and his chest. He shook his head to make the vision disappear—God, all that was turning into a hellish journey into the past for everyone.

Anthea approached Sarah. The girl looked at her, frightened but relaxed by the sight of Mrs. Hudson behind her. She had played many times with Rosie at her nanny's house. She gave them biscuits and milk and the three of them would have a snack watching a Disney movie. 

"Calm down, honey" murmured the landlady, trying to instil courage in the girl, courage that she was beginning to lack. 

"The man gave me this" murmured the girl, opening her hand. 

"The man gave me this," murmured Michael in Irene's house, opening his hand. 

Everyone heard a guttural, mumbling, almost inaudible at the first sinister laugh, which gradually grew louder, wicked and smug. It was Lestrade who first realised that it was coming from Clay's throat., his eyes fixed on Mycroft. The DI closed his eyes, fighting the urge to snap his neck. 

"It's a kill code" they heard John scream into the phone. 

"Sarah has one too!" shouted Anthea. "Nine digits". 

"Michael's is eight," John muttered, bewildered. 

Clay's laughter was heard more clearly over the phone, flooding everyone's ears. 

"Clay, please" begged Mycroft, showing Clay the signed confessions. "You've proved that you're smarter than Sherlock, that you're smarter than me," his former agent's face lit up. "Tell us how to disarm them". 

"No. But I'll give you a hint instead. Since you are sooooo smart, you wouldn't need more. Codes aren't numbers, but letters. Same, but different." 

"What the hell does that mean?" asked John. 

"How much time is left?" Sherlock asked weakly over the phone. 

"Four minutes," replied John. 

"I think he fainted," Bill mused as he saw the detective close his eyes. 

"No, he went to his Mental Palace to get the information" explained John. 

"Poor is the pupil who does not surpass his master, Mycroft" they heard the detective say a minute later. 

At Baker Street, at Irene's mansion and the warehouse everyone looked at each other in bewilderment, police officers and artificers included. What the hell did that mean? And even more so when listening to Mycroft's words.

"That's right, dear brother. Anthea, enter Aristotle. John, your code is Leonardo".

"John, no!" shouted Sherlock, making Anthea and John stop in their tracks, their finger inches away from the decoder.

"Mycroft, the mirror," he mused, exhausted, his voice filled with pain. 

"What did he say?" asked John. 

"Something about a mirror" communicated a puzzled Bill. 

"Idiot" Mycroft muttered to himself. "Yes, of course. Anthea, you put Aristotle in. John, your code is Leonardo's name backwards, O D R A N O E L".

John wrote it down as Sherlock's brother dictated it to him, not understanding why the change was made, while Anthea did the same in Baker Street with hers, none of them able to follow the Holmes’ thread of thought. 

Everyone closed their eyes and flinched, waiting for the bombs to go off. Both emitted two long beeps, and the countdown stopped. 

"That's it", said John, chanted by Anthea. All of them dropped to the ground, and Donovan caught Mrs Hudson, who staggered dangerously.

"That's it, Sherlock" reported Bill.

The detective dropped into bed, relieved. 

"You will be a good boy now and let me give you something for the pain now?" asked the nurse, smiling, noticing the .general relief.

"Please..." the detective groaned.

****

Irene and Rosie startled themselves by the loud knocking on the door. 

"Irene, open the damn door!!!!" shouted John. 

"It's Daddy!" shouted Rosie, rejoicing, standing up and running to the door. "Daddy, daddy, we are here!!"

Irene entered the code, and the door opened. Rosie ran out to John, who was waiting for her, squatting, extending his arm to embrace her. She threw herself at him with such a force that made him fall backwards, while John held her tightly, both crying and laughing at the same time, the doctor kissing her while checking her to make sure she was okay. 

"You see, Aunt Irene?" she said, delighted, "I told you they would come!!!!"

She nodded. She was at the door, keeping her distance, leaving room for the girl and John. The doctor stepped away from the girl and looked at her up and down. 

"Are you all right?"

Rosie nodded. She looked at her father's sling, and her lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She knew his shoulder must have hurt a lot if he had put it on. He hated it.

"Don't worry; it doesn't hurt". 

The girl laughed between tears. 

"You lie worse than Aunt Irene. 

John stood up, raising Rosie with one arm, the girl hanging around his neck, her face pressed against his shoulder, holding him tightly. The doctor looked at the dominatrix. 

"Thank you, Irene," he mused. 

"To you," she replied. 

John looked at her in surprise. He had spoken without coldness or irony, something not at all usual for her. Rosie said something in his ear that she could not hear and the doctor smiled, nodding. 

"Are you coming?" he asked a stunned Irene. 

At Baker Street, the bomb had been removed by the bomb squad, and the paramedics were treating Sarah. Apart from a great deal of fright, thirst and hunger, the girl was fine, as was Michael, the boy in Irene's basement. 

"We'd better wait until tomorrow to question them," said Donovan to Dimmock. The DI nodded. 

In the warehouse, Clay looked incredulously at Mycroft as Lestrade put the handcuffs on him, as violently, as he could.

"John Clay, you are under arrest for the murder of Anthony Craig, the attempted murder of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, embezzlement, malfeasance, theft, extortion and all those other charges you made Mycroft sign" he pushed him towards one of the officers, who just arrived at the warehouse "take that scum away". 

At Irene's mansion, John was walking down the stairs towards the street, with Rosie in his arms, followed by Irene, to the applause of his mates, the bomb squad and the police. One of the officers approached him. 

"He wants to talk to you", he said to John, making a gesture towards the patrol car where Mike had just been put. 

"I have nothing to say to him," grumbled the doctor. 

"He wants to know how the boy is. I won't be the one to defend him, but he seems really affected". 

John hesitated for a while. He turned around, left Rosie in the arms of a totally dazed Irene and approached the patrol car. 

"What do you want?" he grunted. 

"How's the kid?" asked Mike. 

"Do you really care?

He nodded. 

John pursed his lips. 

"The boy is fine. Scared but fine". 

Mike sighed and dropped his head on the seat. 

John frowned. 

"You really care", and this time it wasn't a question. 

Mike nodded. 

"Why?

"He's my son" the mercenary mused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one to go!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!


	10. People do crazy things when they are in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, there are some references to the last episode "The Final Problem" but adapted to this fic, in which Sherlock and John get together after what happened in Culverton Smith's morgue (there is a kiss instead of a hug).  
> Even so, if you haven't watched yet the last episode, keep in mind that there may be spoilers of it.

"Look who's here" announced Donovan, appearing through the door of Mycroft's living room, where Sherlock, Rosie, Anthea, Molly and Mrs. Hudson were chatting while having tea and watching a Disney film the girl selected.

Sarah and Michael entered the dining room; they just came from NSY to give a statement. Rosie let out a shriek, delighted to see both of them.

"Let's go play," Sarah asked Rosie, cheering.

She looked at Sherlock before nodding.

"You promised me," she warned, waving her index finger at him.

"Consulting detective's word" assured Sherlock.

Rosie, satisfied, ran after Sarah and their new friend.

It had been two days since John and Sherlock returned to London, and both were still recovering from their injuries. Since they arrived, the girl had not left their side for a second. She watched Sherlock with a hawk's eye to make sure about, even though being bored, he would not slip away to solve some case with Lestrade until he was fully healed.

Baker Street was crushed, so Mycroft invited the three of them and Mrs Hudson to stay with him and Lestrade, while Mycroft's men remodelled the flat.

John gladly accepted, turning a deaf ear to Sherlock's protests that there was nothing more deadly boring in the world than his brother's house. The doctor knew that Mycroft's assistants would look after them both. It would also be better for Rosie, after what happened, to be in a familiar environment than going to a hotel, which finally made the detective stop his protests.

Donovan gazed at Anthea. Sherlock looked at her, and the sergeant blushed. Of course, Holmes knew her sudden interest in personally informing Lestrade of every step of the cases was due also (or somewhat more so, if she was honest with herself) to her newfound relationship with Anthea.

Sally stuck out her tongue, amused. She and Sherlock still teased each other, but without the acrimony of before. The sergeant sat next to Anthea on one of the couches. The detective occupied another one, where also was Rosie until Sarah and Michaels's arrival, the detective leaning on one of the couch's arms, leaving his still painful back in the air, while Molly and Mrs. Hudson sat in another.

Sherlock got serious when Rosie left the room, worried.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. Thanks to you, Molly and Irene, she experienced all this madness in the least traumatic way possible. But she needs time, especially after you and John came back injured" Anthea tried to calm him.

"But she used to be an independent girl and now is glued to us constantly," Sherlock".

"As Anthea said, she only needs time. And the fact that she's here instead of at Baker Street also takes her off balance a bit" Mrs. Hudson said, patting Sherlock's hand reassuringly. "You and John should keep what you're doing: reassure her, listen to her, and answer her questions. That is the best for her now".

The detective nodded. John explained this to him as well, and in fact, it had been one of the reasons why he finally accepted John's decision to go to Mycroft's without making too much fuss.

They heard laughter and looked through the window into the garden, where John, Mike, Sholto, Bill, the rest of John's army mates and the homeless chatted and laughed animatedly over a few beers.

*********

Mike left the beer on the table, not yet believing entirely he was there, surrounded by his old friends, instead of the desert of Afghanistan or some lost place in East Europe, working as a mercenary for Clay.

He looked at his friends.

"I can't believe I spent almost ten years thinking I committed horrible war crimes, to find out that it was all a lie. I still cannot understand how I could be so stupid as to believe Clay".

"You weren't the only one. According to Sherlock and Mycroft, it was a simple way Clay found to recruit militarily trained mercenaries for his cause. He rescued war prisoners with dissociative amnesia and tricked them into joining his mercenary army. As you didn't remember anything, it was easy to convince you about being war crime's authors".

Mike shook his head, baffled.

"It all seemed so real… he told me he was part of MI 6. He even showed me photos of my war crimes with me on them! I was horrified. I couldn't believe it, but, with all those proofs… How could I go back to my old life, my son, after committing those atrocities? I was disgusted and horrified by myself".

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to apart those images from his mind.

"When he said the Government offered me an alternative to not be judged so that my family wouldn't know what I did, I even thanked that bastard, I joined him to secret British Government's missions so that I could avoid the Courts of War".

"Son of a bitch" mussed Bill.

"As Mycroft said, Clay was an expert manipulator," continued John, putting a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. "There was no way you could have known it was all a deception. He prepared everything carefully, uniforms, messages apparently from the top of the military, from MI 6. It was easy to make you fall into the trap, even more so in the state you were in after being captured and held as a prisoner for a few months".

"But you started to remember," said Bill.

Mike nodded.

"While Clay was plotting to capture Mycroft, he discovered I was in Afghanistan with John, so he decided to use me as bait. He beat me and made the photos of me pretending being captured. Then, as Sherlock found out, he made the photos of the place where I was supposedly kept prisoner and then digging the subsoil. Everything was perfectly prepared for them to set the trap".

He sighed, glumly

"But he did not expect that, after knowing the objective was to kidnap John, I would start to remember. I refused to carry out the mission. To force me, he kidnapped Michael, leaving a note to my wife saying if she did not report it to the police, he would return safely. That is why she did not report our son's disappearance to the police. The same thing happened to Sarah's parents".

"I would have done the same", said Luke.

"Ela is helping me a lot" Mike smiled weakly, looking at John. "Thank you for recommending her to me. And to your brother in law to pay the therapy sessions".

John gestured as if to play down the importance and looked sideways to the other terrace when Lestrade and Mycroft sitting each one in an armchair chatting quietly,

****

Lestrade was aware Mycroft already knew how he felt, but he needed to tell him. He needed to put his feelings into words to organize and process them, and above all, to get Sherlock's older brother to open up to him. Since he arrested Clay, Mycroft hid behind a wall of sad silence that Lestrade slowly managed to demolish.

But DI knew their relationship could not prosper if Mycroft did not let out everything about Anthony; neither if he did not do the same with the whirlwind of feelings that such revelation provoked in him. He didn't want the ghost of Mycroft's dead boyfriend flying over them. He had seen it end badly too many times.

"When you were thinking of telling me?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Mycroft bit his lower lip.

The DI looked at him in surprise.

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"No... not at first. But Sherlock warned me that if you found out otherwise..."

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft looked away, frowning.

"Though relationships are not his thing, since he is with John… he told me John would prefer Sherlock to tell him that to learn it from anybody else in case my brother had had a former fiancé. I panicked someone at the family might slip something about Anthony... but when I was about to tell you, they injected me the implant and everything that came after".

"Why did you ask me to marry you?"

"When they shot you, the memory of what happened to Anthony came back to me. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I was sure I didn't want to lose you. With Anthony..., I was reluctant to get married. I fear I could spoil everything, and one of the things I regretted most was not having accepted before. So when you got back on the plane, despite everything that happened, I decided to ask you at the first opportunity".

Lestrade took Mycroft's hand, stroking the back of it his thumb. Great tears rolled down Mycroft's cheeks, which he wiped away, making an effort to hold them back. But he couldn't. He just did what he had feared so much: open the door to the pain of losing Anthony and, once opened, he could neither close nor contain it.

But, contrary to what he always feared, with Lestrade, the pain and the guilt did not destroy him, the sadness did not devour him. Instead, the gentle touch of Lestrade's hand, the firmness and softness with which he held his hand, his soft loving tone, helped him to cope with all that pain. Surprisingly for him, he felt relieved talking about it, finally being able to let Anthony go.

He gulped until he was able to speak again.

"When Anthony died, something died inside me too, as if something black froze inside me. I refused to feel again, to love, to love, to care..., everything was too painful. That's why I forbade everyone to talk about Anthony ever again. It drove me crazy every time someone named him".

A hint of a smile appeared on Mycroft's lips.

"But then you entered in Sherlock's life and I…, that black thing in my chest slowly started melting… and Sherlock…".

Lestrade snorted.

"So the bastard knew it".

"He said you showed a goofy smile every time you saw me" Mycroft smiled between tears and Lestrade chuckled, "and so until you asked me for a date after we helped Sherlock to dig Emelia's Ricoletti grave. When we started dating, I was scared to dead also to lose you, this is why I watched you, and the CCTV followed you wherever you went until you menaced me".

"And what do you think would have happened if you would have told me about Anthony?" Lestrade asked, gently, looking at Mycroft's eyes.

He lowered his head and spoke almost to himself.

"That you would have left me. It's bad enough dealing with someone like… me, to also carry the burden that I was ... responsible for Anthony's death".

Lestrade looked at him, sad about how lonely, sad and desperate Mycroft must have felt. Mycroft was right. He and Sherlock were much more like each other than the detective liked to admit.

"You're the biggest idiot I have ever met after Sherlock. No, I think even more than Sherlock, since you are smarter".

Mycroft smirked sadly.

"Anthony told me the same. But… when everybody rejects you for being different… I learnt no to trust anyone; experience taught me that anyone who I asked for help would hurt me".

Lestrade looked at him silently, encouraging him to continue.

"People tend to be very cruel to those who are different, and when I shared with anybody something that made me suffer, they saw it as weakness, a vulnerability, an opportunity to hurt me. This is why Sherlock and I learnt to heal our own wounds ourselves, to get by on our own, even if it was in the worst possible way. And it is tough to change that; lessons that have been hard to learn are hard to forget".

Lestrade looked at him, wishing to be able to go back in time and smash the faces of everyone who ever hurt Mycroft. He felt sorry for everything he suffered alone. Being the older brother, he lived and been forced to do things that he had never told Sherlock about. Nor were they ever supportive of each other. Each of them learnt as Mycroft said, to surviving alone.

How Mycroft must have felt all his life made him dizzy and made his stomach shrink. And then he lost the only one who understood him, who loved him, who really saw him. As he thought about it, the image of a devastated Sherlock at John's grave came to his mind, as well as the memory of John after Sherlock's fake death.

Lestrade couldn't imagine all the suffering accumulated under that mask of disdain and pretence of not feeling anything it. He never lacked a friend, someone with whom to share a pint, share his worries, someone to help him get through those moments when everything seemed to be falling apart around him.

He admired Mycroft's strength to make it on his own. He told Mycroft, and there was silence between the two of them. Sherlock's older brother looked at him, worried, guessing what was behind the DI's words.

"What I mean is, it is right to be broken, as you say. Everyone is, somehow. And that doesn't diminish your value. On the contrary, it shows who you really are, the real you. But you have to forgive yourself".

"I cannot. I am responsible for Anthony's death. I should have realized that something was wrong. If I had been more attentive if I had prevented him from leaving...."

"Mycroft, you have to convince yourself that you're not God".

The elder Holmes raised his eyebrows, puzzled.

"What I mean is that you couldn't control what Anthony was going to do or the decisions he made. Anthony knew he was taking a risk going after Clay, didn't he?"

"Anthony wasn't an idiot" grunted Mycroft.

"I know. What I mean is he knew Clay was dangerous. He knew he could die, what he was doing and why he wanted to do it. And he decided it was worth, for you".

"For me?"

"For you. Get into that big head of yours that anything is worth doing for you. I would do it too. That idea you have, however much you try to deny it, that you're not worth it, is a piece of shit, a stupid idea you have to stop believing it once and for all. This is why Anthony wanted to save you."

"But why?"

"Because he loved you, idiot" Lestrade answered fondly "And people do crazy things when they are in love" he whispered.

"Now you became a philosopher?" asked Mycroft, amused.

"No, we watched Hercules Disney movie with Rosie too many times".

Both chuckled.

"Do you still want to marry me? asked Mycroft, insecure

"You already know the answer".

"Yes, but you are always telling me not to deduce you to let you say things".

"And you never listen to me. Or are you going to start now?"

"People do crazy things when they are in love".

Lestrade chuckled, and, passing a hand over Mycroft's neck, drew him in to kiss him gently, just a brush with his lips.

Mycroft smiled and kissed him back, a bit unsure, still surprised at how easy it had been to talk to Lestrade, to open his heart to him and that the DI, unlike the others, hadn't ripped it to shreds.

Lestrade backed off a bit, breaking the kiss. Mycroft blinked, embarrassed.

"Come on. I'm sure you can do better" teased the DI.

Mycroft bowed his head and smiled, approached Lestrade, cupped his head between his hands and closed his eyes. Gently but firmly, he pressed his lips against his, a sweet soft kiss at first, a way to thanks Lestrade for understanding him, for loving and caring for him the way he did.

He moved his hands, so his fingers tightened on Lestrade's hair, deepening the kiss, both parting their lips, letting each other's tongues explore their mouths. The DI put a hand on his nape, the other around him, drawing him to him, passionately kissing each other, inside Mycroft growing that familiar feeling of not wanting the kiss ever to finish, making strangled noises that ashamed him; but Lestrade found delicious, so Mycroft didn't hold them. 

They broke the kiss to breathe, their forehead together, both panting and blushed.

"When must send our guests to bed" joked Mycroft and Lestrade chuckled, laying down next to him on the deckchair, where both dozed, embraced, Lestrade resting his head in Mycroft's chest, the elder Holmes stroking his greyish hair. Deep inside, he could feel Anthony, wherever he was, was happy for him, the weight that had been carried for so many years is finally disappearing. 

A bit later, Lestrade disentangled himself from Mycroft, letting him sleep and entered the living room when Sherlock was reading a medical journal. Molly, Sally, Anthea y Mrs Hudson went to go for a walk with Sarah, Rosie and Michael, so the detective was alone in the room.

Sherlock smirked.

"I'm glad you made up with Mycroft".

The DI raised an accusatory finger at him.

"Stop doing that".

Sherlock chuckled and turned his attention back to the journal. The DI glanced at John and the rest of soldiers and homeless, animatedly chatting and laughing.

"Why don't you go and join them?" he asked, gesturing towards the window.

"To the John Watson's ex- male lovers Convention? No thanks", he replied, pretending to sound bored and nonchalant.

Lestrade mumbled. In a way, he understood the Holmes. If the world knew what they were really like, the feelings they hid behind their masks, the world would have eaten them alive.

"You can fool everyone, but not me."

The detective scowled at him surprised by the DI's smug and jocular tone. A few seconds later, his mouth dropped, and he stared at the DI, annoyed and in awe.

"I told you not to read it until I was dead" he finally achieved to hiss between clenched teeth, blushing furiously.

He made a gesture to get up from the couch, but Lestrade grabbed his arm, forcing him to remain sitting. In other circumstances, the detective would have got rid of him easily, but he was still sore and a little weak, so he had no choice but to stay with the DI.

"Do you really think that I wouldn't read a letter you wrote to me thinking you were going to die? Please. Be thankful that I didn't do it in front of the whole NSY".

Sherlock looked alarmed this time. Lestrade giggled.

"I read it by myself, idiot. But I assure you that cases will never be the same now I know you really don't think I'm an idiot, but…".

"People write nonsense when they think they're going to die," Sherlock retorted.

"Sure, sure, I will remember it every time you pretend don't remember my name".

The detective threw a cushion at him and groaned in pain at the sudden movement.

Lestrade smiled and helped him settle in, tucking him in with a blanket.

"I am not a child" he protested.

"Don't complain. You wrote that I have been like a father to you. Although I'm not that old, by the way".

Sherlock hid his face in his hands, shaking his head. 

Lestrade smiled and sat down next to him.

"Thank you, Sherlock".

"Why?"

"For playing matchmaker with Mycroft and me."

"Lestrade, go to the hospital for a brain scan. You're delirious."

"No, I'm serious, Sherlock. It must not have been easy for you to get over Anthony's death either or what Clay did to you. And I know it had something to do with you making Mycroft go into my office as often as you could to bring useless files".

Sherlock bit his lower lip and smiled, a bit sad.

"After Anthony's death, Mycroft turned into a black hole of despair, control and sadness. He refused to talk about him. He forbade us to talk about him. He didn't let anything light him or make him happier. Until he met you, especially after the day he came to talk to me, the day John shot the cabbie".

"John shot the cabbie?"

"Oh, come on, Lestrade, you knew from the start."

The DI chuckled again, proudly.

"It was so funny to hear you saying you were in shock, looking at John in that amazed and in love way... For a moment I got the impression you were going to jump on him and kiss him, in front of the whole NSY and paramedics".

"Git" he snorted.

He bit his lower lip.

"That day I noticed something changed inside Mycroft. Something that reminded me of when he met Anthony. That's why I started asking him to come to the crime scenes and going to your office. I…" he lowered his head and swallowed hard. "I… owed him, because Anthony's death was my fault also. If I hadn't given the pen to that idiot who gave it to him instead of Mycroft..." he shook his head "Not that Anthony was better than you" he added quickly, worried.

Lestrade nodded reassuringly. He knew what Sherlock meant.

"As I told Mycroft before, Anthony's death is not your fault, not Mycroft. It's Clay's. He shot him. Not you, not Mycroft. So it's time you start accepting you couldn't have to avoid it. You were at the hospital, and Mycroft didn't know what Anthony was going to do".

Sherlock looked at him, grateful.

"Mycroft deserves… overcome all that. And I knew he wouldn't be able to open up to you if I didn't give him the first push".

"And you did all this without realizing how you felt about John?"

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek.

"It's… that's different. I always knew how I felt about John".

"And why didn't you tell him?"

Sherlock sighed, frowning, hesitating. Then shrugged.

"Well, I guess after since you read the letter, it doesn't matter yet. I didn't tell John because… that way I could daydream."

Lestrade's eyes widened. Daydreaming and Sherlock seemed two opposite concepts.

The detective chuckled.

"Yes, I was as shocked as you are. From the day I met him, I caught myself thinking about him, daydreaming about him and me together, especially after he tried to hit on me at Angelo's. As long as John didn't know that I was in love with him, I could keep on dreaming that he would fall in love with me. I was sure the moment he knew, he would reject me, and the dream would end, so… I know it was childish and coward, but I didn't know how to manage all that I felt for him. And daydreaming while being at his side…kept me right".

"Didn't you realize he felt the same way about you?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I missed it. And that he didn't stop going out with women didn't help much.

They both chuckled. Sherlock sighed again.

"I know Mycroft, and I don't get along at all, and I can't stand him most of the time but... he tried to remain the same posh, bossy Mycroft. But I knew better. And to tell you the truth, Mycroft couldn't have found anyone better than you," he croaked in shame, "his feelings for you are stronger than he ever felt for Anthony. And that's the end of it," he said, aghast. 

"I think it's me who needs a blanket now" chuckled Lestrade.

It was Sherlock's turn to threaten him with his finger.

"Don't you dare tell Mycroft, John or anyone else about what I said" Sherlock hesitated a bit "Please, Greg".

Lestrade nodded. He didn't intend to, especially after reading the letter.

He wanted to keep his promise and not to open it, but the night they thought John had died, hearing Sherlock's mad laugh and thinking the detective had hit rock bottom, he decided to do it. He hoped to find something that would help him and something about Mycroft, but he never thought he could find anything like he read when he laid eyes on it, anything like…

"No, Lestrade" Sherlock cut him off "No way. You still are the same old idiot, and I still am the same pain in the ass, is that clear?"

"Okay, but if you go too far, I will show it to the whole department," menaced the DI.

"Watch out, Lestrade. Accidents happen every day," Sherlock threatened.

Lestrade chuckled. He stood up and patted the detective on the thigh.

"You should join your husband".

Sherlock looked sideways at the group, undecided.

"Come on, as you said to me, John knows he couldn't have found anyone better than you. None of them, however much he fucked them in Afghanistan".

"I take back everything I said in the letter," grumbled the detective.

"Come on, trust me" Lestrade encouraged him, by running the glass door to let him out.

Sherlock slowly got up and went over to the window, not daring to go through it. No matter how hard he tried to make it disappear, the fear that John would one day get fed up with him and abandon him was always there. And it was further accentuated by the doctor having a great time with his old army buddies.

The detective feared it woke up forgotten feelings towards any of them. Any of those men were much easier to bear than he, without his emotional rollercoasters, his traumas, his sulking, his...

"Come here, love" John turned on the seat and reached out to him.

As always, John's face took away all his worries. His smile, his sparkling, happy and calm blue eyes, the love in them looking at him, calmed him. 

He was still wearing his sling, but with the treatment and the physical therapy, it hurt much less, and he was regaining the range of motion in his shoulder. At Mycroft's house, he was healing in leaps and bounds.

Sholto stood up and brought two chairs, placing each one aside from John, who took the detective's hand as soon as he sat down. He noticed his hesitation and knew enough of his fears and insecurities to understand what was going through Sherlock's restless mind.

Lestrade sat in the other. Mycroft slowly walked over, picked up a chair and sat down next to the DI, who smiled, winked at him and took his hand. Some minutes later Molly, Anthea, Donovan joined them.

Mycroft's employees brought additional tables, drinks and chairs for everyone, plus something to nibble on, in case anyone was hungry. Just as they were leaving, Mrs. Hudson came in.

"Rosie is already in bed, although I don't think she will be able to sleep. She's too excited about tomorrow".

Sherlock and John looked at each other and smiled. They decided that instead of waiting for his birthday, which was still a few months away, they would go to the dog shelter the next day to adopt a dog.

"Sorry, Mike, we interrupted you," excused Molly.

The former soldier shook his head.

"I was just telling them about Michael. When I think about the poor kid sitting on a bomb, I want to rip out Clay's throat" he sighed and smiled "happily the boy is okay, as well as that little girl… Sarah.

"I still cannot understand how we didn't notice Sarah was in the 221C" muttered Anthea.

"The attack was not such, just a diversionary manoeuvre, just like at Irene's house" responded Sherlock "taking advantage of the confusion, they entered the children and the bombs in each house".

"But..., I didn't see them go in" frowned Sally.

"Clay was always a great master of the smoke curtains" replied Mycroft "in the middle of the commotion, concentrating many troops against the door, it was not difficult for him to carry out the deception".

"I can't believe it".

They remained silent for a bit until Mike spoke again.

"When I saw Michael… I couldn't believe it. When I went to Afghanistan, he was only a couple of months; he was so tiny… and now…., Ela explained he would need time to get accustomed to me, so… I'm trying to be patient".

"And what do you plan to do now?" asked Bill.

He shrugged.

"I'm still a bit shocked. Everything I believed for almost ten years turned out to be a lie. Suddenly I'm back in London, I've got my son back... and it is not easy for me to assume that Laura, my wife, remarried, although I understand that. It's been a long time" he smiled, "she's happy, she has two other children with her new husband..., and I don't want to break that. But it hurts. Everything happened too fast. I'm still confused."

"Don't be in a hurry to decide" advised John. He looked sideways at Sherlock "You never know what life has in store for you around the corner".

Both smiled and looked at each other, enraptured for a few seconds until Sherlock regained his composure.

"And you?" asked Lestrade the homeless, coming to Sherlock's rescue. He blinked at him, and the detective rolled his eyes.

The homeless looked at each other, smiling.

"Start over" replied Matt for everyone. "When you live on the street, it's complicated to reintegrate you into, let's call it, normal life. People don't trust us, that legend that we are misfits who don't want to be part of society again... There comes a time when we end up believing that we are just the debris that people see as they pass by, wrapped up in blankets. But..." he turned to Sherlock "When you came looking for veterans, you gave us a chance to remember who we were, no, who we are. Lestrade was right. You are a...".

"No, get on with Mycroft," interrupted the detective, stirring uncomfortably in his chair. "He got all of you a job, and he gave you references".

"Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson scolded him gently.

"What? It's boring."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson, we can read between the lines," said Pete.

He turned to Mycroft who stopped him with a gesture.

"Don't even think about it".

"Mycroft, there's one thing I don't understand" cut Anthea, knowing the two brothers would close up like oysters if the homeless kept talking "If you killed Clay, how was he alive?"

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other. Mycroft cleared his throat and pursed his lips.

"Clay lied. I didn't shoot him, I shot Spaulding, his alter ego. Clay liked to tell that he defied death by his magnificent, powerful mind or something similar, to increase his legend of being superior, invincible. If I had shot him, he wouldn't be alive. He knew that I would come for him, so he ordered Spaulding to take his place once again. I was... affected, and I didn't notice the difference. I killed and buried the wrong man".

He shook his head in disappointment.

"But, even though he was not wounded, Clay's misdeeds had come to light, so he had to flee England, and took refuge somewhere remote in East Europe, where he met someone who, at that time, was creating a criminal network".

"Moriarty", declared Sherlock.

All gaped.

"Really?" asked Patrick.

Both Holmes nodded.

"Clay put himself under Moriarty's command and helped him build his Serbian net. Moriarty then came to London, leaving Clay there, who rose quickly within the organization. To increase his mercenaries, Moriarty advised him to rescue prisoners of war with amnesia, like Mike. At that time, there were many conflicts, and it was not difficult to find them. Little by little, Clay armed almost an army" explained Sherlock.

"When Moriarty shot himself, Clay was in charge of making sure that the gunmen killed you if Sherlock reappeared" continued Mycroft.

Mrs. Hudson shuddered, remembering the huge workman whom she offered a cup of tea on the day of Sherlock's death. John frowned and clenched his fists, as did Lestrade.

"Clay stood up as a leader and thought he had it all figured out, but Sherlock went off to smash Moriarty's network, that is Clay's net. The last piece of it left was the Serbian one, which was when Sherlock was captured".

He stopped at his brother's warning gaze.

"That's why Clay knew your Serbian "friend". Then I heard about the imminent terrorist attack on Parliament, which was also Clay's idea, but then Sherlock went back to London and screwed up his plan".

"So he changed his strategy and decided to go straight for Mycroft" continued Sherlock. "He infiltrated staff that no one paid attention to, cleaners, mail delivery guys, drivers, but who have eyes and ears everywhere. And when he had everything ready, he inoculated him with the chip. He was preparing another attack similar to the one on Parliament but wanted to make sure that I would not be in the way to hinder his plans this time. That's why he came up with Mike's ruse".

"And why your accident?" asked John "You didn't know anything about his activities, did you?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"At first there was suspicion, but none of them was directed at Clay. He was astute and knew what he was doing. Everyone saw him as my right-hand man, so no one found it strange that he ordered operations without me. But his ambition was stronger and decided to get rid of me. He made another vehicle crash sideways into mine, right on the side where I was sitting. When he failed to kill me, to divert attention from him, he blamed Anthony. And Sherlock came back into the picture. The rest you know.

"Okay, and the code to defuse the bomb?" asked Bill. "How the hell did you know that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Clay is a clever guy. He always stood out from the rest, in tests... in everything but also has an excessive ego and he was proud to surpass all his previous bosses. When I hired him, every time he was promoted, he repeated the damn thing" answered the older Holmes.

Sholto shook his head.

"But if he knew that you knew... why did he use it as a password?"

"No, Clay knew that Sherlock erased from his memory what he was not interested in and that I had blocked out many of the memories around him. That's why he was sure we wouldn't figure it out".

Microft smirked with contempt.

"Clay boasted of being a Renaissance man, capable of many activities at once, and he said that he always, always, always surpassed his masters. He didn't drop the damn little phrase from his mouth, assuring he would surpass us too. He got obsessed with it. More and more every day. He said that the day he made it, he would climb to the top of Olympus or some such nonsense like that," Mycroft replied.

"So it wasn't hard to conclude. If he was sure he had made it, the key had to be related to his _leitmotiv_ ", Sherlock continued.

"And you remembered it?" asked Bill.

"What Clay said? Of course not. But I remembered Anthony," he looked sideways at his brother, who nodded slightly. "He used to say that if he heard Clay say that again, he would cut his jugular. He did a perfect impression of Clay, saying it, in that unbearably pedantic Clay's tone".

To the amazement of the general, Mycroft snorted, nodding.

"Anthony used to stand behind Clay and make the gesture of hanging himself with a rope, bowing his head and...

He cut himself, surprised to be able to talk about Anthony without feeling pain. Lestrade grabbed his hand, squeezed it and shook his head slightly, encouraging him to continue.

Mycroft swallowed and pulled himself together. After all, he was Mycroft Holmes, and even if he opened his heart to Lestrade, he wouldn't do it to the others even if he knew they wouldn't do him any harm. He only allowed himself a slightly mocking smile.

"Sometimes, when Sherlock came to the office, he and Anthony, behind Clay's back, pretended to stab themselves in the neck while he gave a eulogy of all the missions he successfully and smartly completed".

A roar of laughter erupted from all of them, imagining the scene.

"It was the only way to put up with that idiot," Sherlock justified himself, smiling slightly as well. "But thanks to that, I remembered it. I had no idea and didn't care who said that, but I knew Mycroft would".

"There is a controversy about who really said the phrase, whether it was Aristotle or Da Vinci. Aristotle because he surpassed Plato and Da Vinci because he surpassed... everyone. That idiot thought he was the only one who knew certain things".

"And the mirror?"

"Leonardo wrote about his scientific ideas, researching and inventions using a special kind of shorthand that he invented. No one knows if it was to prevent others to steal them or to hid them from the Roman Catholic Church, so powerful in those days. Whatever the reason, he not only used a language of his invention; he also mirrored his writing, starting at the right side of the page and moving to the left. Clay knew anyone's first idea, even knowing the code, would be entering the name in the usual way, written from left to right." answered Sherlock.

"And you remember that and not the Solar System?" teased John.

Sherlock grunted at the general derision.

"For the umpteenth time, the Solar System is not important for the work. If one day a race of aliens plan to attack the Earth and I have to prevent it, I will rescue the information about it. And no, I didn't remember it. But I do remember when I was a little boy, and Mycroft forced me to write backwards, with two hands, while telling me the story of Leonardo, to determine my degree of stupidity, since this ability is considered a sign of intelligence".

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Don't be so melodramatic, dear brother mine. I was teaching you to write with both hands and in both directions, to help you to develop both your brain hemispheres equally".

"Yeah, sure. And Eurus drew that because I was his favourite brother" replied Sherlock sourly.

"Okay, time out, time out, contestants to your corners" intervened John, anticipating that this would lead to an argument.

"You should sit down and work out your stupid sibling rivalry" sighed Lestrade.

"I have no stupid sibling rivalry," Sherlock and Mycroft affirmed in a chorus, ignoring each other arrogantly, to the startled ex-soldiers and homeless' gaze.

"Nah, don't even listen to them. Deep down they love each other" teased Mrs. Hudson, totally unaffected by the incendiary gaze the two brothers threw at her.

"I'm not going to stay here and listen to any more nonsense" announced Mycroft, getting up and disappearing inside his house.

"Neither do I" replied his brother, leaving in the opposite direction.

"Sometimes I wonder what is wrong in our heads to love those idiots," smiled Lestrade.

John chuckled.

"I don't know about you. In my case, Sherlock said "dangerous".

"In my case, I'm not going to tell you what Mycroft told me because his secret service guys are listening to everything we say".

"Then it must be something dirty and obscene," Sholto joked, to everyone else's amusement.

"You have no idea."

Mycroft appeared at the glass door.

"Gregory, can you come here a minute?"

"I have to leave you. Daddy's going to scold me" mocked the DI, getting up, the others laughing out loud.

Mycroft covered his face with his hands, horrified, and disappeared into the house, followed by a playful Lestrade, who hugged and kissed him.

"Well, given the direction this conversation is taking, an innocent old lady like me is going to sleep".

"Innocent" snorted Molly.

"Young lady, don't overdo it. Or what do you think, just because you have a new girlfriend, I won't scold you?"

Molly's mouth dropped open.

"You promised not to say anything!" she replied reproachfully.

"A girlfriend, Molly?" Anthea turned to her. "Who is she?"

The pathologist smiled shyly.

"Irene".

"Irene?" asked the rest in unison.

Molly nodded.

"When you and Sherlock moved here, Irene came to... to collect the debt that Sherlock had contracted with her".

Everyone looked at John, who rolled his eyes.

"Rosie seems to have exerted a notable influence on her. So all she asked was to be able to spend some time with our daughter every month and requested Sherlock to arrange a romantic date with Molly".

"Really?"

"I wish I had been there when Sherlock told you" chuckled Anthea.

Molly laughed.

"Sherlock called me and said: You have a table booked with Irene at Angelo's tomorrow at nine. There will be a candle. Don't miss it. Wear lipstick."

The rest burst out laughing.

"And he hung up before I could ask him anything. I called him back, and he didn't answer the phone. I think he was about to die of embarrassment. But I decided I had nothing to lose and went to the date. And, well, I discovered another Irene. More docile. And she discovered another Molly. More authoritarian. And I'm not going to say any more".

"So you… finally forgot about Sherlock? " said Donovan.

Molly blushed a bit.

"When Sherlock called me from Sherrinford and told me that…. he loved me... It was harrowing for me to hear it, most knowing he and John were… starting his relationship, something that obviously Eurus ignored. But, somehow, hear him saying what I have been waiting to hear from him for so long…, even knowing he loved John and wasn't real …, somehow it set me free, like if a spell was broken. It's mad, I know, but…, and then I fell in love with Irene" she smiled, blushing.

"Donovan and Anthea, Molly and Irene, Sherlock and you before... Baker Street has a love spell?" joked Sholto.

"If it does, it is welcomed" replied Sally, kissing Anthea in her lips.

Mycroft's assistant got up and grabbed her hand.

"We have to go. We also have booked table in Angelo's. With candle" she said, and the rest giggled. 

Little by little, they left. In the end, only Mike and John remained there.

"I'm very sorry we didn't find you then, Mike", said John.

The ex-mercenary shook his head.

"You don't have to apologize for anything. You always said you wouldn't leave any man behind. And you didn't. You came back for me". 

Mike sighed, looking intently at him.

"I'd be lying if I didn't say that... when I knew you were coming for me, I remembered what we went through together in Afghanistan. When we got back to London I fantasized that... we could get that back. But looking at what you have now… I don't understand well why you came to rescue me".

He looked towards the dining room, and John followed his gaze. There, Sherlock sat in an armchair, with Rosie on his knees, who just came from her bed, unable to sleep. The detective was reading her a book, waving his hands and gesturing exaggeratedly while performing the book characters, making her laugh, amused.

Both Mike and John couldn't help to smile. The doctor ran his hand through his hair, looking for the correct words and pointed to them.

"I almost lost that. I almost lost everything. I hurt him badly. The one who loved me the most. The one I loved the most, though I was too blind with fury, pain grudge and frustration to realize it. But I was lucky. Sherlock loved me enough to give me another chance. He kept loving me despite all the physical and emotional damage I caused him".

He lowered his head and spoke in a quiet tone.

"I know many people think it was a mistake on his part. That he should have sent me to hell for what I did to him. And they are probably right. But, even when I was the worst version of myself, Sherlock didn't stop loving me. He kept believing in me, trusting that loving me was worthy, though I was a true bastard with him".

He shook his head, tears shining in his eyes.

"Nobody loved me that way before. Nobody. Nor my parents, not any of my former girlfriends of boyfriends" he gazed at Mike "Nobody." he repeated. "Thanks to the love he brings me, I healed inside. And found the reason to change, to try to be better. I stopped drinking, and I started going to therapy to manage my anger, my aggressiveness, and all the shit I kept inside me. I'm still on it" he smiled sadly "Listen to me. I am even able to express my feelings now, though it keeps being hard".

He worried his lower lip, inhaling deeply.

"I would cut off my hand or my foot before doing what I did to him again. But I also wanted to show Sherlock that I can be the one he met at Barts' lab. Not that I was worth much then but... at least I wasn't the angry bastard I became afterwards."

He closed his eyes. Remembering everything that happened since Mary's death, the way Sherlock looked at him after he beat him into Smith's morgue, was still heartbreaking to him.

"As Ela taught me, I cannot change what I did. But I can learn from it and show Sherlock that I am worthy of all the love, understanding, and generosity he brings me every minute of my life, that he brought me since the day we met. And this encourages me to try to be better for him. To fight to become who that amazing human being deserves".

He looked back at Mike.

"This is the only and real reason why I went to rescue you. Going to look for you was a way to... a restart. To go back, to connect to whom I was when I met Sherlock, to erase all the guilt and self-loath I felt when his brother told me… I don't know if you understand me. It's complicated" he smiled weakly "it made more sense in my head. People do crazy things when they are in love, I guess".

Mike chuckled, gloomy but understanding and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I understand. I don't know what the hell happened between the two of you, but... I know you, John Watson. I know you're going to make it. And he knows it too. Believe me. Not only because he has… that ability. It's deeper. It's clear, by the way he looks at you. You rescued him from a lonely and dark place, and brought him to life."

Mike smiled at John's amazed look.

"I don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to see that. Why someone as posh as he would resort to homelessness to rescue his husband? He could have hired a bunch of professionals. And he didn't. It is clear that, at some point, he hit bottom and descended into hell. And you or someone helped him out. That's why he believed and trusted you. Not to mention that he is in love with you to the core".

He looked at Sherlock and Rosie through the glass.

"He's a lucky guy. So are you. But if you spoil it, I swear I will come here and beat the pulp to you, for being an idiot".

John chuckled. They hugged hard.

"We'll meet each other, won't we?"

"Of course, we have a pint pending, all the chairs taken, this time".

Mike nodded. Bill and Sholto had told him about the empty chair.

John said goodbye to Bill and Sholto, who were waiting for him a bit former, letting them privacy. The doctor watched the three of them walk through the garden towards the entrance gate. Then smiled broadly and entered the house and sat next to Sherlock and Rosie.

*******

The next morning, Rosie was running in the shelter, ecstatic, spinning around herself, surrounded by dogs of all breeds, sizes and ages that jumped around her. She tried to pet and cuddle them all at the same time, shrieking delightedly when they licked and nudged at her to get her attention.

Some were almost taller than she, others only puppies, all wagging their tails, sharing the girl's enthusiasm, their pink, long, wet tongues hanging out as they panted, jumping and barking around her.

"Which one do I choose?" she asked John and Sherlock who, a little further away, were looking at her, smiling, talking to Marnie, one of the dog shelter's volunteer. Both were relieved that, the moment Rosie saw the animals, all her worries vanished.

"Whichever one you want" answered John "the one you like best".

"I like them all!" replied the girl, laughing, amused by the dogs' races around her.

"Mrs. Hudson will have a heart attack if you take them all to the flat," replied Sherlock.

"But Uncle Myc's house will fit," replied the girl.

"She is right there", snorted John.

"If you want, you can come over now and then and help us," invited the volunteer, "so you can feed and take them for a walk.

Rosie's eyes shone.

"Can I? Please, please!!!!!" she begged, jumping and running, delighted that the animals followed her wherever she went, barking excitedly.

"Of course you can. Papa will be happy to bring you here" answered John, who noticed the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes when he saw the dogs.

The detective nodded.

"Go on," said John, pushing him gently.

He knew Sherlock loved dogs and was eager to play with Rosie and them, only held back by the idea of maintaining his aura of an unabashed consulting detective.

He approached Rosie, and soon both were surrounded by cheerful animals. Sherlock smiled broadly, both he and Rosie throwing them sticks and balls, and Rosie about to explode with enthusiasm as the dogs laid them at her feet. 

"I want this! The one with one brown and one blue eye" cried Rosie, pointing at a Blue Merle Border Collie, with white chest and grey-blueish tinged fur, and dark patches along his back, tail, face and ears.

"Did you know border collies are the smartest dogs of all?" asked the woman.

Rosie nodded vehemently.

"Like my Papa".

Sherlock smiled, delighted, as John chuckled, moving next to him, running his arm around his waist, careful not to hurt his back.

"He even has your eyes," he scoffed.

"You idiot".

"What is his name?

"Merlin".

"I love it!!!!! Merlin, come with me!"

The dog followed the girl docilely to her parents. John stroked his head as the animal sniffed the sling.

"In a few days I will let you destroy it," promised the doctor.

Rosie frowned.

"Ten days, Daddy, not a day less" she reminded him.

"You are worse than Sholto in Afghanistan" giggled John.

Sherlock chuckled, stroking the dog's head too. He was as excited as Rosie about having a dog. John was a little less; he knew that the animal would end up being his responsibility, but the happiness on the faces of his husband (however much he tried to hide it) and her daughter was worth it.

"Merlin is an excellent choice. He is very docile and likes children. And I think they already become great friends," Marine smiled, watching Rosie ran around, as the dog gave big boats around her, cheerful, as if aware that the girl chose him. 

"Wait a moment; I will get Merlin's things."

Sherlock and John nodded. Rosie approached them and hugged them tightly.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you. You are the best parents in the world!!! But don't ever leave without me again".

"Never" they assured at the same time.

Sherlock took her in his arms, the dog jumping around her.

"Can Merlin sleep with me in the bed?"

"No" answered John, "No way. Dogs in bed are not allowed. That's why we are going to buy him in a bed".

The girl pouted and looked at Sherlock.

"No, your Papa won't give you permission either".

"But John...." begged Sherlock, making the same puppy face as Rosie.

"I said no. And go help the woman with the dog's things," he said sternly, settling the matter.

Sherlock frowned, annoyed at John's tone, and approached Marnie, who was carrying a big carton box.

"Here you are," said the woman, handing it to him. 

"But..., this..." muttered Sherlock surprised to notice the box's weight and warmth. And even more so when the box began to whine softly.

John and Rosie blinked at each other, amused, and turned to the detective, who looked at them, puzzled.

"Come on, open it" John said softly.

The detective did so, slowly, and was stunned when a red furry head with soft, affectionate almond eyes and long hairy ears poked out of it, sniffing the detective's hands.

"We tricked the only consulting detective in the world!" shouted Rosie, clapping excitedly and high-fiving John.

Sherlock looked incredulous and excited to the Irish Setter, who was happily nibbling on the cardboard and then at two pleased with themselves John and Rosie.

The doctor smiled broadly. He talked with Ela about it, and she said it would be a good idea now that Sherlock, after what happened in Sherrinford, was starting to put his past back together. She explained that, since Redbeard had been a part of Sherlock's past in some way, he had to elaborate on his loss, as well as Victor's. And the dog could be a help to do it.

"But... what about Merlin?"

"We'll take them both. That way neither of us will be alone when we're gone".

Sherlock looked at him in amazement.

"Do you know what our house with two dogs is going to be like?

"I don't think they will make any more trouble than you do. That way, when you're bored, you can take them out for a walk instead of shooting at the wall".

Sherlock stroked the Irish Setter's head behind the ears, who was sniffing with interest at Merlin, who stood up on his hind legs to smell him.

"Did you know that?"

Rosie nodded, delighted.

"She had a hard time keeping it a secret. But she achieved to do it. The idea was giving you a puppy for Rosie's birthday, but Marnie told me yesterday that this big boy arrived at one of the shelters. He's a year and a half old so that he will get along perfectly with Merlin".

"But.... why?"

John and Rosie shook their heads, giggling amused at the detective's supreme turmoil.

"Because we love you" they answered.

"Idiots" mumbled Sherlock, pulling the animal out of the box and hugging it, eyes full of tears.

"If you want, you can change his name," offered the woman.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. It's ok like it is. Redbeard will always be... a good memory." He looked at Rosie and caressed Milo's head while the dog looked at him with adoration "It's time to leave the past behind. It haunted us for too long".

He looked intently at John, who nodded, smiled and kissed him, spitting when Milo put his tongue between their joined lips.

"Bad dog!" he scolded him, as Rosie and Sherlock laughed out loud.

"Can Milo sleep in our bed?" asked Sherlock a bit later, as the three of them approached to one of Mycroft's car, followed by the two dogs, happily trotting with them.

"No".

"If Milo can sleep in your bed, Merlin will sleep in mine".

"I said no".

"He would keep you company on the nights I do not sleep due to the cases".

"No. You have to sleep during cases".

"Please, Daddy".

"No".

"I will show him how to make the bed in the morning" assured Sherlock.

John laughed reluctantly.

"No".

"I will tidy up my room every day" promised Rosie.

"No. You have to tidy it up even if Merlin doesn't sleep in your bed".

Rosie looked at Sherlock, pouting.

"Don't worry," the detective whispered in her ear, "he won't resist long. In two days, Merlin will be sleeping in your bed and Milo in ours". 

"Sherlock, tonight you sleep on the couch with the dogs!"

"Can I sleep with papa and the dogs on the couch too?"

"No"

"But you talked about the beds, not the couches, Daddy".

"Yes, John, you talked about the beds, not the couches".

"I wanna cry". 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading!  
> Kudos and comments are always welcome.  
> 


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